I met Amy Diaz the day Tom and I moved in. She was on the welcoming committee and brought a fresh-baked loaf of bread and a pot of Lentil Soup. She and I had become fast friends. Unfortunately, Tom did not get along with her husband, Carlos, so there was seldom any socializing that included the men. But Amy and I found we had many things in common and often spent whole days shopping or decorating each other’s homes. We didn’t need the men to be with us to have fun. We liked the same books, TV shows, and movies. We even learned how to play Mah Jongg together, and despite having no luck at it, we enjoyed the long afternoons chatting about everything from Southern Living recipes to the latest trends in clothing while we clicked the Mah Jongg tiles onto the glass patio tabletop. The only thing we didn’t talk about was our husbands.
I knew why Tom hadn’t liked Carlos, but I was never sure why Carlos hadn’t liked Tom. Tom thought Carlos was the male version of a gold digger. Carlos and Amy had met when he was hired to do Amy’s yard work. As a forty-nineyear-old spinster, Amy was nice, but not really what one would call attractive. She was rail thin with splotchy skin and hair that had to be tamed with barrettes or headbands. They had been married for two years when we met them and Tom had never really understood what the twenty-five-yearold Latin lover type had seen in the pale, nervous, chatty Amy. Obviously, Tom believed him to be more in love with Amy’s lifestyle than with Amy, and I’m guessing Carlos picked up on that and returned the nonchalance. They were cordial, but that was the extent of it. Then when Tom caught Carlos cheating at golf, they drew lines in the sand that neither crossed.
Amy and I were still friends years later, though I expect that was in part, due to Tom’s passing. We would not have been able to stand the tension otherwise.
When I knocked on the screened door of the rear porch, I was surprised to see Carlos answer. He was rarely home during the day as he was on several golf leagues and belonged to the Little River Swim & Racket Club as well.
“Hi Test, she’s in the bathroom being sick again.” Carlos liked to call me Test or Testa instead of Tessa. When drunk he’d actually called me Testicle a few times, but Tom had told him to knock it off. He thought “Hi-Test” was particularly cute. I often thought he was just putting up with me; hence I was a “test” to him. It was his way to always put in a dig, but I didn’t mind. Lately I was happy to do anything to deflect his bad attitude away from Amy. It was more than apparent to all that this marriage was on the skids—that was, to everyone but Amy. She idolized Carlos and even though I would have loved to tell her this was actually working against her, I could never bring myself to hint at it.
“Sick? What’s the matter?”
“What isn’t the matter? One day she can’t go, the next she can’t stop, and I’m about ready to suggest Depends just to spare the plumbing.”
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“She says this is normal for peri-menopausal women, something about hormones and the bladder letting go at will.”
“Still, there are things that can be done. I’ll come back later when she’s feeling better.”
“No, you might as well stay, I’m sure she’ll be out in a minute or two. I’m leaving anyway—got a golf date on the Byrd. Help yourself to some Sangria, I made a fresh batch.”
“Thanks, but I’m on medication for an allergic rash I picked up while on the cruise.”
“Oh, that’s right, you were away. How was it?”
“It was great. I had a marvelous time. But it’s always good to be home and back on the plantation.”
“Yeah. We’ll, gotta go.”
He left me standing in the kitchen so I looked around, hoping to see some new craft project Amy was working on. Instead, I saw dishes in the sink and the remains of lunch strewn all over the counter. Knowing Amy was not feeling well, I opened the dishwasher to start loading it. Inside, on the top shelf was a wad of clothes. There were more on the bottom rack and they had all been sprinkled with detergent. I shook my head, then painstakingly carried them to the laundry room mindful of the detergent and trying not to get any on the floor. That’s when I found the vacuum on top of the dryer.
I didn’t know what to think, but obviously, our neatas-a-pin, almost-perfectionist, one-step-from-being-O.C.D. Amy was slipping. Dumping the clothes in the washer, I went back to the sink and scraped and loaded dishes. When Amy came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, I almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was so matted that it was actually staying down without benefit of pins or a headband and she was wearing a pink nightshirt over green flocked pants that were way too big for her. At first I thought that they might belong to Carlos, only I knew he wouldn’t be caught dead in anything so ugly. She had made an attempt at lipstick, but it would have been an understatement to say it had been done with a shaky hand.
“Hi,” it was the softest, saddest voice—little girl lost was what came to mind.
“Amy, honey, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong? I don’t know, what’s wrong?” Again, it was sweet, innocent and without guile.
“Well, you usually look a bit better,” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, “and so does the house. Carlos says you’ve been sick.”
“Oh, that. I ate something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” She had a far off look in her eye as if there was something she was trying to recall, something tucked in the back recess of her mind. Somehow, I knew she wasn’t going to find it.
“Come sit down. Come talk to me.” I took her by the hand and led her out onto the screened-in porch where I sat beside her rubbing her hands between mine. They were ice cold, yet the house and even the porch were warm.
“Are you taking pills or anything? You’re acting very odd.”
“No, just my vitamins, everyday,” and in a singsong voice she recited “A, B, C, D, no more E, chromium, magnesium, potassium, zinc, melatonin, baby aspirin and calcium, and a Centrum Silver cause I’m getting old and gray. But Carlos is not, he says he doesn’t need anything but GNC Arginine and Cialis.”
“So you’re not on any drugs? Have you been drinking? I know it’s early, but . . .”
“No, not drinking. Carlos made Sangria, but it’s for tonight. We’re having guests.”
“Guests? For dinner?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Who?”
She thought for a moment while I frowned at her.
“I don’t remember. Somebody. Somebody Carlos invited.”
“Well don’t you think you should get cleaned up, maybe make some food?”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess so.”
I pulled her up and hugged her. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m not going to let you look like a fool in front of Carlos and his friends. C’mon let’s get you cleaned up then I’ll help you fix something for dinner.”
“Lasagna. I remember. I’m supposed to fix lasagna. And a pie. And a salad. Maybe those Greek spinach triangles, too.”
“Geez Louise! If Carlos has these friends coming over and you’re supposed to have all that, why isn’t he home helping you make it?”
“I don’t know. Do you suppose he knows?”
I pushed her into the kitchen. “You know if I didn’t know better I would swear you took some pain pills or something. How would you feel about a tongue depressor down your throat?”
“How would you feel about a tongue depressor down your throat?” she asked and then laughed hysterically. It was the innocent gleeful laugh of a little girl delighted with a roomful of new toys.
“Okay, coffee. I’m making you coffee. And you’re going to drink it. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Mmmm, not sure.”
“Okay, let me start the coffee then I’ll fix you a sandwich. Do you remember drinking anything this morning? A Bloody Mary, a few too many Mimosas, maybe?”
Four hours later, she was fairly normal. The kitchen had been cleaned, dirtied, and then cleaned again, and everything she needed for dinner was ei
ther in the refrigerator or ready to go into the oven. I had finished the laundry and put the vacuum back where it belonged and shoved her into the shower, admonishing her to wash her hair at least twice. Then, after making the bed, I laid out her clothes, and just as a safeguard, I found some cranberry juice and watered down the sangria in the refrigerator.
I didn’t really know what was going on, but I didn’t want Amy to greet her guests, whoever they might be, looking like a frumpy banshee with nothing but pickles and chips to offer them. Feeling I had done my good deed for the day, hell, for the week, I waited for her to come out of the bathroom. When she emerged from the bathroom, looking as she normally did, squeaky clean and with tendrils flying, I hugged her and pointed to the clothes on the bed.
I took the long way home. I needed the brisk fall air to cleanse my mind. I had so much to think about in regard to Amy. Why had Carlos left her to go play golf knowing she was in no condition to get herself, none-the-less dinner, ready on her own? And who were the guests he’d invited that she couldn’t remember? Well I hoped he was happy that I had stopped by to help her out and to clean up the mess he’d left. Men, they could be so into themselves sometimes.
Chapter Twelve
The voyeur in me Later that evening after I’d had my own dinner consisting of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, I got in my car to go to Food Lion for some groceries. And of course, I took a little detour so I could drive by Amy’s house and see who her company was.
I can generally place most of the people on the plantation by their cars, but this time I was stymied. Who drove an orange ‘vette? Carl and Dottie had a blue one, Jack had a black one, Ash had a red one, but who had an orange one? It looked like a late model—sleek and low with no chrome. I was perplexed. I went around the loop that was Baroney and made a second pass. The plates were Florida plates and the European-styled black and white sticker off to the right of the tag had a BR in the white circle. I backed up to read the tiny black print—Boca Raton. Who did Carlos and Amy know there?
While putting away the groceries almost an hour later, an impulse to spy came over me and I sauntered out onto my deck to see if there was anyone on Amy’s deck or porch. Nope, it was all quiet on the Jones 11th. I was staring so intently, trying to see inside the screened-in porch that I almost didn’t hear my phone ring. I quickly ran inside to get it, answering on what I was sure was the last ring before the answering machine would pick up.
“Hello?”
“Hi beautiful, just checking to see how you’re doing. You sure had a nasty reaction there, dinya?” It was Roman and his soft brogue did wonders for my spirit. “Yes, but I’m much better now, thanks to you. What was that stuff you dabbed all over me?”
“Papaya mash with crushed basil leaves. Sailors are often getting something from the sea, hives mostly, and when ya canna just up and shower or bathe, the itching can nigh drive ya crazy. I’m pleased I could help. So what marvelous things do ya have planned for your homecomin’?”
“Cat and Viv and I are going to brunch tomorrow and then maybe if it’s nice, we’ll play nine holes. Then I really have to do some yard work, it’s getting a bit sketchy in the flower beds around here.”
“You do your own yard work? That’s surely commendable.”
“Not the heavy stuff or the mowing, my friend Terry does all that, I just plant, replant, weed, pull up my mistakes and bury the plants that can’t survive my evil black touch.”
“I kind of like your evil touch, it brings life to me. In fact . . . just hearin’ your voice is quite thrillin’.”
“You are the most flattering man.”
“ ’Tis no flattery, I fear you have hexed me.”
“Truly? Because I do believe there was some sorcery at work in our meeting.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” His teasing banter made me smile.
“How else do you explain our affair—serendipity?”
“Is that what you call what we’re doin’, an affair?” I could tell he was taking umbrage but I had no idea why this would be.
“What would you call it?”
“Makin’ up for lost time. And if it’s an affair, it be a love affair, not some tawdry thing that burns out before the ropes.”
“The ropes?” I asked.
“Yeah, the ropes. The ropes I desire to use on you, to keep you in place for a while. You never give me the time I need to be sated with you. Now I’m not even sure that’s at all possible.”
His words, spoken so huskily and so low in my ear, were awakening me, my body was beginning to arch and stretch as if seeking out his. “Well unless you plan on getting on one of your boats and sailing this way, I don’t see any bondage in our future.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve just agreed to be an expert witness for the defense in a trial coming up in Charleston. It’s in two weeks time. Any chance you can meet me? I promise to use silken cords so as not to mar your fair skin.”
“It’s not so beautiful now.”
“It will be by then.”
“You’re serious aren’t you?”
“I’ve got a room at The Meeting Street Inn. I’ll be there on the 10th, I’ll leave a key for you at the desk, just tell them you’re my concubine.”
“Concubine?”
“Yes, aren’t you familiar with the word?”
“Of course I am!”
“Well then, you know what your job will be, you’ll be my pleasure slave.”
“Sounds a bit one-way, don’t you think?”
“Not if I’m the one who’s getting pleasure from causing yours. The Meeting Street Inn, it’s of course on Meeting Street. Don’t make me have to go to the slave market for a replacement, it’s only two blocks away you know. And I’ll bring the rope.”
There was silence while I held the phone limply in my hand. How did that man do this to me? My pulse was racing, my heart hammering and I was moving my legs against each other as if I had an itch you-know-where. Well, actually I did. I went to my bathroom and applied more of the anti-itching cream and then took a glass of wine out to the deck to do more spying.
It was a beautiful night, with just a little sliver of a moon coming over the fairway and illuminating the green several hundred yards away. It was so peaceful and lovely. But at that exact moment, I would have traded anything to be wherever Roman was, to be in his arms, feeling his passionate kisses—unless of course, he was in the process of jumping off some monstrous ship somewhere.
I finished my wine while I waited to see if there was any activity going on over at Amy’s—nada, nothing was going on. I went back inside and then upstairs to the bonus room to the shelves where I kept all my old school books. I pulled out the collegiate dictionary I had used while I was teaching and looked up concubine. I was referred to mistress, whose definition was: a woman with whom a man habitually fornicates. Hmmm. Define habitually, I commented to the room at large.
My only problem now was how were we going to make this long distance affair, or whatever it was, work? He obviously was not “sated” with me yet, and I couldn’t be happier about that as I clearly was not “sated” with him either. I went to bed with the smile of a Viennese courtesan uppermost in my mind.
I was awakened by laughter, loud boisterous laughter—then equally loud shushing noises. It sounded like there were people out on my deck. But that often happened. The way the fairway and green were situated behind my house, noise carried much like it did over water. I was always surprised when I could hear whole conversations taking place at the tee box, over three hundred yards away. And of course, the cussing could be heard from the next fairway over. I looked over at the clock, it was 1:30. I heard a woman laugh, a screech actually, something was hilariously funny to someone. Curiosity got the better of me and I got up and looked out my bedroom blinds.
There was a light shining on Amy’s deck, but I couldn’t make out much more than that. Well, if you’re going to spy, do it right, I told myself, and I made my way into my closet where I kep
t my binoculars, or in this case, spyglasses.
Turning off the lights behind me as I went, I made my way out to the farthest edge of the deck. I raised the binoculars to my eyes and stood staring, wide-mouthed, in shock. Carlos was in the hot tub on his deck and in it were two young blonde women, both topless. Oh, dear God. Poor Amy. I panned around for her, but not surprisingly, she wasn’t included in this little party.
I watched, horrified as Carlos dribbled something from what appeared to be a champagne bottle between the valley of one women’s breasts and then bent low to lick it off. The loud trilling of laughter floated back to me and I watched as Carlos pushed a button on the hot tub control panel and doused the lights. There was no doubt what was going on when the voice of a woman drifted over to me, “Me next Carlos, you have double duty tonight, and I sure hope you’re up for it. Come mount me, baby.” Another sick laugh accompanied the taunt. I didn’t have the stomach for eavesdropping any longer.
Amy was going to be devastated when she found out about this. I wondered how she could possibly be sleeping through all the noise right outside her bedroom window, and was profoundly grateful for the insight I’d had to water down the sangria. The only explanation for why Carlos would act like this with Amy so close by was that he wasn’t worried about getting caught. She was his meal ticket and as Tom had been so fond of saying, “Carlos is not about to give this lifestyle up to go back to landscaping, so he’ll keep Amy happy no matter what.”
I held the binoculars by my side as I felt my way around the deck furniture and made my way back to my bedroom. Poor Amy! Poor me! Was it my job as her friend to tell her what I’d seen and heard? Remembering how she was this afternoon, it occurred to me that maybe she might already know that her husband was a philanderer. And that was about the nicest word I could think of calling him at this moment.
The Widows of Sea Trail-Tessa of Crooked Gulley Page 9
