Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “You’re hired,” I said and shrugged my shoulders.

  “Tough interview,” he said. “Wanna have dinner?”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  “I’ll cook for you.”

  “Cool. I’ll help.”

  I nearly collided with Millie and her tray in the hallway. Once again, I looked like an idiot.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “Out to dinner with Mr. Weston.”

  “Uh, that’s Welton,” he said, “but call me Josh.”

  We didn’t talk in the car. The top was down and there was too much noise from the wind. I had on my huge sunglasses and held my hair back with one hand. Every now and then, I looked at his arm. It was toned and tanned. All I wanted to do was run my finger down the muscle and see if the blond hair was as silky as it looked. He’d catch my glance and smile. I’d smile back. We screamed down Highway 17 north and I knew I was going to be a bad, bad girl. It was out of character, to say the least.

  His house on East Bay Street, overlooking Charleston Harbor, was nearly three hundred years old, one of the wonderful old historic pastel-colored ones with earthquake rods running through it.

  He got out of his car to open the elaborate wrought-iron gates. I could tell through his clothes that he was in very good shape. His khaki trousers hung from his backside like a tablecloth. He probably worked out all the time.

  All the way to Charleston, I wondered if he planned to seduce me. What would I do? When had I showered? That morning. Legs were waxed, no trauma there. Oh, please, I told myself, get over it. You’re just gonna have a little dinner and go home.You’ll discuss the state of education and religions and you’ll go home. Try to remember the part about going home.

  We pulled into the courtyard, he closed the gates and came around my side to help me out.

  “Been a while since I was in one of these,” I said. He gave me an arm and I pulled against his weight to get out. As gravity and nature would have it, my chest brushed his, but he dropped my arm and I smoothed out my pants. It was already dark. Too early to have Studly Do-Right throw-me-down. And please! Go inside for heaven’s sake!

  I was so busy talking to myself that I didn’t hear him talking to me. “Oh! I’m sorry! What did you say?”

  “I said, why don’t we get a glass of wine and then I’ll show you around. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” I said, following him up the front steps and inside.

  We passed down a long wide hall with roped-off period rooms on either side, through an almost invisible door, into the kitchen.

  “House tours?”

  “Yeah, I promised my parents I wouldn’t change anything. I figured if I was destined to own a museum, I may as well open it to the public. Pays the taxes and I don’t have to work full-time, all year, which is why I tutor.”

  “Trust fund?”

  “Yeah, thank God. The interest isn’t huge, but there’s not much I want. White okay?”

  “Sure.” I dropped my bag on the center island and thought what else could there be to want. He lived in a virtual palace. “May I ask a question?”

  “Sure, ask away!”

  He twisted the corkscrew into the neck of the bottle. I watched his muscles flex as he removed the cork. It was a beautiful thing. I forgot what I was going to ask. His eyes caught mine. He blushed.

  “Got some cheese and crackers or something?” I said. “I’m starving!” Now, how stupid a recovery was that? About a two on a scale of one to ten.

  “Sure! In the fridge. Help yourself.”

  I dug around the bottom hydrator and found a new piece of Saga. When I turned and closed the door, I caught him shifting his stare from my derriere. I started to relax. At least it wasn’t just me. For a while there, I had been worried. I went through the drawers until I found some reasonably fresh crackers.

  “So, does it drive the tourists crazy that their host has dreadlocks?”

  “They think I’m the maintenance man. It’s my cover.”

  I just shook my head. “Got a cheese board in this house?”

  “Over the stove,” he said.

  I found it, took an apple from a bowl of fruit on the counter, rinsed it, and dried it with a paper towel. He handed me a goblet.

  “What are we drinking to?” I said. He was standing so close to me that I could smell his skin. He smelled slightly of musk. My heart was in my throat.

  “Interesting question. What do you think we should drink to?”

  My heart was now going about five hundred beats a minute. If I died from nerves and anticipation it would ruin everything and I’d never forgive myself.

  “Let’s drink to courage,” I said, “something I’m lacking.”

  “Oh, God! No! Let’s drink to something else. I say we drink to romance.”

  We clinked and I said, “No, no. Too corny. Let’s drink to something noble!”

  “Romance isn’t noble?”

  “Okay, you win. Here’s to—”

  “Wait! I know what! Let’s get serious here. Let’s drink to the feeling we had when we first looked in each other’s eyes. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t know what you call it, but it was some very nuclear energy.”

  “Yes. It was.” At least he gave it a name. “To nuclear energy!”

  We touched the rims of our glasses once more and finally drank. Yes, he had named it. When you name a thing, I thought, it’s real and belongs to you. I knew that we had to find something to talk about or else we’d just rip off our clothes. For the sake of some semblance of propriety, I took a stab at small talk, while I went back to fixing our hors d’oeuvres.

  “So tell me where you’ve traveled,” I said.

  “I spent last year in Nepal, Bhutan, and India,” he said.

  “Take a lot of pictures? It’s hot as hell there, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it’s hot as hell here. I’m sort of a student of Hinduism and I stayed at an ashram with my guru for six months. I have lots of pictures; photography is sort of a hobby of mine. Did a lot of yoga, a lot of meditation.”

  “What kind of yoga? I do Hatha.”

  “Well, this was different. Tantric. Red.”

  “Oh, great. I’m going home.”

  He may as well have said that he was rewriting the Kama Sutra. Then we both started to laugh. We were going nowhere except to bed.

  MISS LAVINIA’S JOURNAL

  Here it is, only eight o’clock in the evening, and I am thoroughly enjoying the change in my household and just wanted to make note of it. I am propped up in my bed watching my adorable Eric construct a huge LEGO thing that has a motor and I know that any minute it’s going to come racing across my room! Oh, my! If I had the strength, I’d be on the floor with him. I’m so tired these days! Maybe I need some vitamins or something! In any case, having him and Caroline here makes me so so happy! And where did she run off to tonight? Gone without so much as a fare-thee-well! What if I’d decided to fly to Lisbon with Peter? Well, Millie could’ve watched Eric, I imagine! Oh, that Peter Greer! They just don’t make men like him anymore! So genteel! So attentive! Even though he’s on the back nine, I’ll bet he’s an an-i-mal, if you know what I mean! He said he’d stop by around 9:30, if he could. I’ll be waiting, Peter!

  Thirty-three

  Breathe

  WE took our wine, cheese, and crackers to the large study that adjoined the kitchen. He turned on music and opened the French doors to the porch and garden. Trying to be casual, I turned on a few lights, had a bit of cheese, licked my fingers, and took a sip of my wine.

  “I use this as my living room. No tourists allowed.”

  “Well, you have to have a place of your own.”

  “Absolutely. You stay right here and I’ll go get my portfolio. I’ll show you the Ganges and the Himalayan mountains.”

  I walked out onto the porch and smelled the perfume of jasmine. I knew that technically I had no business fooling around with a man before my divorce was final, b
ut that finality was still two years away. The courts in New York were so backed up, it would be a miracle to get it even then.

  I decided to ignore my marital status. I was sick to death of being thought of as so correct—Richard’s wife, the reliable, the predictable, the scrubbed-up and squeaky clean, quintessential southern belle. Fifteen years of the missionary position had taken its toll on me. I was in the mood for adventure.

  I walked along the neat brick path, which led to an outdoor fountain. Water from the jar held on the shoulder of the ancient Greek maiden in the center cascaded and splattered drops, making music on the surface of the pool. From that center I could see the formal pattern of the garden was like a wheel, footpaths for spokes. Each wedge held different horticultural specimens, ornamental grasses, things I’d never seen, all cared for by someone who loved growing things.

  I strolled all around, talking to myself—of what the night would bring. When I finally stopped arguing with my inner voice that I wasn’t here to get revenge for Richard’s infidelity and that I longed for the touch of a man, this man, I came to another conclusion. It was high time I started taking some risks. My father had possessed the mocking soul of a gambler. My mother was as theatrical as they came. They both did as they pleased and in the process loved their lives.

  So would I. I knew then that was what, or part of what I had heard from the soul of my father. Be my daughter! Change! It meant to let go a little, take chances on life. Not dangerous ones, but to investigate my own wants and desires. I had bought into Richard’s politics on everything for too long until I had damn nearly become a translation of him. Maybe I would reclaim myself and become my father and my mother’s daughter.

  I saw Josh moving in the light of the study and called out to him.

  “Hey! I came outside to poke around! Beautiful garden!”

  “Thanks! I thought you left me!”

  “Yeah, sure.” When hell freezes, I thought. I came up the steps to join him. “I love to garden. When you come out next week, remind me to show you our roses. They’re pretty wonderful.”

  “Gardening is my passion. When I’m away I have this amazing woman . . .”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, she’s been gardening for over seventy years. Taught me all there is to know about compost.”

  “Oh!”

  Jesus, Caroline, I said to myself, you’ve known the man for how long and you’re already possessive? Wait until Lavinia sees his hair! I was beginning to think it was pretty sexy and wanted to touch it, in the most urgent way. We stepped back inside.

  The noise of my thumping libido was momentarily quieted by my decorator’s eye. The study was filled with beautiful English antiques, which stood gleaming in every part of the room. Asian artifacts were everywhere. I had hardly noticed them when Josh had been in the room the first time. The pale green walls rose to fifteen feet and the tan curtain panels flanked the French doors and long windows, hanging from a fat rod and puddled on the floor.

  He just stood there, leaning against a tall chest on chest, watching me. “You think I’m going to take you to bed, don’t you?”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” I said, lying and smiling.

  “Wanna see some pictures?”

  “Sure,” I said. I took his hand and he led me to the couch.

  He had several black leather portfolios, stacked on the table in front of him. I picked one up and began to flip through. They were all eight-by-ten color photographs of temples, mountains, monks, and pilgrims.

  “Where’s this taken?”

  “Oh, that! That’s Pashupatinath—major shrine to Shiva. And those are young Tibetan monks at the Sera Monastery in Lhasa.”

  “These are so great! Why are they so blue?”

  “Good eye! Thin air—altitude makes the blues more prominent.”

  “Is it warm in here or is it just me?” I could feel little beads of perspiration on the back of my neck. “Josh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  The room temperature continued to rise. “Let’s have dinner. Okay?”

  “Do you want to have dinner now?”

  Nope, I want you to show me your whole bag of tricks and I want you to show me with vigor and enthusiasm. I want you to make me sweat!

  “Sure,” I said and put the album back on the table. I drained my glass and so did he. It was all I could say.

  “Come on!” he said, pulling me up. “You’re just a lazy feline!”

  “You’re absolutely right.” I held up my glass. “I’m on empty.”

  “I can take care of that right away.”

  He filled our glasses and we began to make dinner in the kitchen. It was remarkable how distracted I felt.

  Josh was digging around in the cabinets and I searched the refrigerator.

  “If I had known you were coming, I would have shopped for something and actually planned this meal.”

  “Who knew is right!” I could not have cared less what I ate for dinner.

  You’re Caroline’s dessert, Josh Welton. I’m gonna be such a bad girl with you . . .

  “Hey, Caroline. Risotto?” he said.

  “Sure! With what?” . . . I want to examine your entire body! Call me Dr. Caroline. . . .

  “Asparagus and onions?”

  “Perfect! I’ll make salad.” . . . And then we’re gonna play with your Kama and my Sutra and see what happens!

  I made the salad, set the table, lit the candles, lowered the lights, all with more enthusiasm than I could recall having for domestic duties in ages.

  His silver flatware was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. He asked me about my childhood. I told him my version of the truth. He entertained me with stories of his. We alternated between cooking and thumbing through his pictures with laughter and refilling the glasses many times.

  “Was this silver your mother’s?”

  “Yep. I try to keep everything in good shape. Well, actually, I don’t do it. Someone comes in.”

  “Double her salary. Your time is not best spent polishing silver,” I said and grinned.

  “And what do you think is the best use of my time?” he said and smiled, biting his bottom lip.

  “Talk about a rhetorical question!”

  “I have other knives that match it in the bottom drawer. Those have steel blades and they rust.”

  He was chopping shallots on the cutting board next to the stove. I opened the drawer and sure enough when I unwrapped the gray flannel bundle, it held twelve knives—reproductions—which matched down to the last thread. The butter and olive oil sizzled when he dropped in the onions. In minutes, the room smelled so delicious that my stomach began to growl.

  “So, Josh, you know I have to ask you this question . . .” Exactly how big is it?

  “Sure. Ask anything,” he said and stirred the risotto around the bottom of the pot. “Want more wine?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “You seem so calm to me—intense as a whole freaking town in flames, but calm nonetheless.” I offered him a slice of tomato. He opened his mouth and I fed him, thinking I’d like to run my finger around his teeth. He closed his mouth on my finger and sucked it. “Jesus, bubba! Cut it out!” I said that with no conviction in my voice and he didn’t stop. “Do you think we could kiss or do something remotely germane to this culture? Just to humor me?”

  He released my finger and said, “Kiss? That’s germy!”

  I put my hand on my hip and looked at him like he was crazy.

  “I’m kidding,” he said, “come here.”

  He extended his hand, I took it, and he pulled me to him. Yeah, boy, I was about to kiss a man with dreadlocks. I wished Richard could see how unprovincial I was. He pushed my hair away from my face and neck and that’s where his mouth went first. I thought I would pass out on the floor. I wanted him to push my salad out of the way and throw me on the center island. I wanted his weight on me and I kept pulling him closer. We backed into the island and, sure enough, the whole bowl of ro
ughage went crashing across the floor. Who cared? He was getting very feisty and I was right there with him. Then he stopped, opened his eyes, and looked at me.

  He said nothing and lifted me onto the center island.

  “I hate salad,” I said.

  With the flick of his wrist, he turned off the stove and then all hell broke loose and it became crystal clear why women took younger lovers. I could not believe that I was on a marble slab having the time of my life and getting a chiropractic adjustment at the same time. By the time I was ready to chastise myself for doing this with my son’s tutor, the cruise to paradise had begun. Oh, well, I thought, too late. Hang on and enjoy the ride.

  And I did. When we finally came up for air, we had progressed from the island to the floor to the couch and to the floor again. This fellow took his vitamins. When I opened my eyes I was looking at the hand-plastered ceiling of his study, wondering what it would cost to reproduce it in today’s market. What does that tell you? I looked over at Josh and smiled. This couldn’t happen again. After my disastrous final episode with Richard, this had been good for my ego, to be sure. Even then I knew that Josh would have to remain on the perimeter of my life. I wasn’t ready for a relationship—a friend, perhaps, but nothing serious.

  “Do you want to stay the night?” he asked.

  “Baby boy, I’d like to stay forever, but I think Mother would have a cow if I did. And besides, we really shouldn’t be doing this. Especially if you’re going to be Eric’s tutor. It’s not cool.”

  “You mean, this was it?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

  “Too bad, I mean, you’re right, but what a bummer.”

  He understood. I was grateful for that.

  We rode back to Tall Pines with the top up on his car. He held my hand and every so often, squeezed it. Several times I reached over and ran my hand down that lovely arm of his. His skin was smooth and cool. I had a surprising affection for him and hoped we could find a way to be just friends.

  The house was almost dark when we arrived, except for the porch and hall lights and one small light in the living room. It was nearly eleven o’clock. We said good night and promised to talk the next day, and I went inside, feeling pretty groovy about life in general.