Hennessy looked like she wished she didn’t have to agree, but she nodded. “That’d be best. For now, at least.” She grasped Townsend’s hand, then dropped it in a nanosecond. “But if I’m going to be honest, it’s your money that’ll make her most uncomfortable. And your class.”
“I promise I won’t toss her a five and tell her to carry my suitcase.”
Hennessy’s eyes grew wide, then she let out a nervous laugh. “I’ll probably have a nightmare about that happening, but it’s still a little funny.” An antique truck rumbled up along the curb and Hennessy’s feet left the ground when the horn honked. “Shit!”
“I believe our ride is here,” Townsend said as she picked up her suitcase.
A tall, lanky man jumped out of the truck and loped around it. He looked like he could have been in an ad for something manly, like beer or jeans or trucks. Short, graying hair, tanned, weather-beaten skin, and piercing blue eyes. “The baby girl has finally returned to the roost,” he said as he gave Hennessy a quick hug. “We’ve missed you somethin’ fierce.”
“Granddaddy, this is my friend Townsend.”
Townsend put her hand out to shake. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“Same here, Townsend. Good to have you. You two ’bout ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Hennessy said as she helped her grandfather load their bags into the bed of the truck. Hennessy got up onto the bumper and used a length of rope to tether the bags, but she didn’t have enough rope to do a good job. Clearly frustrated, she threw her hands in the air and grumbled something as she climbed into the truck, with Townsend following along.
It wasn’t the oldest truck she’d ever been in. The fleet at school may have had some that rivaled it for that honor. But this one was definitely the fishiest. It was a cool day, probably in the mid-50s, but Townsend had to open the window a crack, relieved when Mr. Boudreaux cranked his all the way down.
“How’d you like the ride this time?” he asked, giving Hennessy a fond smile.
“It’s all right,” she said, shrugging. “I assume I’ll get used to flying over time.”
That’s why she was so anxious! This had only been her second flight.
“How about you, Townsend? Do you fly much?”
She almost said she’d logged more miles than some flight attendants, but pulled her comment back. “I’ve flown more than Hennessy,” she allowed. “I enjoy it.”
When they left the airport, they moved onto a six lane highway. The loud, rumbling engine and open windows precluded conversation. But Townsend didn’t mind. She was able to focus on the scenery, and try to get a feel for the place. So far, it looked like every other expressway, just cars speeding by, passing them like they were standing still. Mr. Boudreaux didn’t seem to be in a rush, or maybe the truck simply couldn’t go over fifty.
About a half hour later, they turned off the Interstate onto a smaller, four-lane highway. Now things began to look more southern. Tall pine trees sprouted up from the red-clay soil as the scent she’d come to associate with Hilton Head filled the car. It wasn’t quite like rotten eggs, but it was close. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a definite hint of sex, stale and funky. Like someone should open a window to air the place out. She was about to comment when she turned to look at the blissful expression on Hennessy’s face.
“Have you ever smelled anything sweeter in your whole life?” Hennessy asked, looking a little drunk.
It struck her that the place could smell like burning tires and Hennessy would want to bottle it. She stated the obvious, not expecting a reply. “You love your home.”
“I surely do. I assume everyone from South Carolina loves it, but I can’t fathom anyone loving it more than I do.”
As they continued down the road, the space between houses grew, with fewer and fewer of them dotting the landscape. When the houses disappeared, the scent grew stronger. The mixture of odors lost their individuality completely, but there was no doubt you were by the water. Shrimp, scallops, oysters, clams…all of those creatures lived and died in these briny waters, their decaying shells probably adding to the miasma. She took in a breath at the same time Hennessy did, and their eyes met. The pleasure in those blue orbs nearly took Townsend’s breath away. If she was going to love Hennessy Boudreaux, and she was definitely going to, she was going to have to learn to love the smell of South Carolina.
They pulled onto a smaller road, and slowed down, now allowing them to speak without shouting. But neither Hennessy nor her grandfather seemed very talkative. When Townsend rode with her mother, they never spoke, but that was because they didn’t like each other enough to share their thoughts. It didn’t seem like that was true for Hennessy. The silence in the car was very companionable, like they were both happily enjoying the ride without having to comment on it.
Townsend, usually unable to be around Hennessy without chatting, sat quietly, listening as Hennessy’s few words began to sound as sweet and syrupy as molasses. Her accent was clearly tied to the latitude she inhabited.
They skirted Beaufort proper, hugging the coast, with brief glimpses of water showing through the low, swampy land. Once they turned off onto a craggy, jarring dirt road, they’d clearly left civilization behind. The red soil was gone, with the truck kicking up a fine, white dust. Townsend held onto the dash to avoid being thrown out the window. Finally, a weather-beaten metal sign announced, “Boudreaux’s Shrimp Shack.”
“Is that you?” Townsend asked.
“Sure is. I hope you like the smell of shrimp.”
They reached a fork in the road, and through the dust Townsend saw another sign for the restaurant with an arrow pointing to the left. But they turned to the right, and after another hundred yards pulled up to a very, very, very modest home.
“I’m gonna let you girls get settled. I’ve got to run an errand,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “Go on over to the shack when you’re hungry.”
“I’ve been hungry since I left home,” Hennessy said, beaming a smile at her grandfather. “We’ll head over as soon as we put our bags away.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m really happy to be home. Thanks for going out of your way to give us a ride.”
“T’wern’t nothin’,” he said, sparing a shy smile. “See you two later.”
“Thanks, Mr. Boudreaux,” Townsend said, jumping from the tall truck and nearly falling to her knees from the smell of—something.
“Fish.” Hennessy said, obviously seeing the look on her face. “By tomorrow you won’t be able to smell it. With any luck.”
“I love fish,” Townsend said, hoping the smile she had affixed wasn’t too fake looking. She looked at the house, summoning all of her bullshitting skills. It was going to be hard, but she was going to act like she was well acquainted with homes on the verge of falling down.
The house was two stories, but the top floor wasn’t perfectly lined up with the bottom. Trying to think back to her earth sciences class, Townsend wracked her brain to recall if South Carolina experienced earthquakes. It wouldn’t take much of one to reduce the whole thing to rubble.
The place could have used a coat of paint—thirty years ago—but there were curtains in the windows and the few sparse patches of grass were neatly mowed. Small, well-kept flower beds bracketed the front stairs, and a stately magnolia tree stood right in the middle of the front yard. Gazing up with obvious fondness, Hennessy showed a crooked smile and said, “Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.” Townsend cocked her head, but Hennessy waved it off. “Old expression my gramma uses. It about sums us up, though.”
They toted their bags up to the rickety porch. When Hennessy opened the door, Townsend asked, “It’s not locked?”
Hennessy kicked it shut with her foot and twitched her head in the direction of the door. “No lock on it. Gramma always says if someone’s poor enough to rob us, they surely must need what we have more than we do.”
“Interesting perspective.” She looked around the simple space, t
rying not to be too obvious. A well-worn sofa, a recliner covered with some form of man-made material with a poor patch job on the seat, a small table on each end of the sofa, and a pair of mismatched lamps. That was it—not another hint of decoration or adornment in the room.
“Remind you of your home?” Hennessy asked, her voice a little tight.
Townsend stood directly in front of her and gazed into her shifting eyes. “It’s not much of an accomplishment to have a few million bucks when you were given a million to start. The game’s rigged.”
Hennessy plopped down on the sofa, plucking at the threadbare arm. “I’ve never been away from home for this long,” she said softly. “I think I forgot how little we have. I walk around Cambridge and I see the row houses selling for millions of dollars, and baby stores with three hundred dollar dresses for infants, and I…forget.”
“Listen,” Townsend said, sitting next to her and trying to not flinch when a spring pinched her ass. “You were born to teenagers—drunken teenagers. You didn’t have anyone pulling you along, but you’re at one of the most prestigious schools in the country.”
A sly smile bloomed on her beautiful face. “We think it’s the most prestigious school.”
“I’ll let you have the title. So you’ve worked your butt off to study at the best school in the country, while I’m scrounging around, trying to make the worst schools in the Boston area take a chance on me.”
Hennessy started to speak, but Townsend covered her mouth. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Hennessy. I do.”
“I’m sorry,” Hennessy whispered. “I don’t normally feel sorry for myself. It’s just a lot to take in after the ivy-covered halls of Harvard.”
Townsend cuddled up next to her. “I always feel better when I get a hug. How about you?”
“Yeah, I guess I do, too.” They held each other for a while, both of them soaking up the affection with equal greed. “I’m about to die from hunger,” Hennessy murmured. “Wanna go meet the family?”
“Sure. Will they be at the restaurant?”
“Shack. It’s called a shack for a reason.”
They set off down the dirt road, the smell getting stronger as they drew near. The thing that most surprised Townsend were the…weeds? Some kind of green plant that was everywhere; standing nearly chest high. As they got closer, she saw the shack was right on the water, almost plunked down in this sea of… Who knew what in the hell it was? Cape Cod had sea grass, but this wasn’t that. She’d have to ask when Hennessy didn’t look so tense.
“If Gramma asks, I’m gonna say you’re a friend from school. If she knows how we met, she’ll be madder than a hornet, and you don’t want that. Trust me.”
“I don’t mind lying. I prefer it, actually. But why would she be mad?”
“Where do you think I got my ideas about not associating with students? I guarantee she’ll be much friendlier if she thinks we’re classmates.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Harvard. Now’s my chance.”
They walked to the rickety building sitting alongside an equally haphazard dock. “Here we are, June Bug. I hope you don’t have a shellfish allergy.” Hennessy threw open the screen door and yelled into the empty restaurant, “The baby girl’s back from the big city!”
“Baby girl, you get in here, you sprite!”
Grinning widely, Hennessy led Townsend into the kitchen, a small space reeking of grease and fish. “Gramma!” she called out, and dashed the few feet to wrap an older woman in a bear hug. When she stepped back, Townsend watched with delight as Hennessy’s grandmother ran her hands over her body like she’d just been in an accident and was checking for injuries. Reddened, rough hands skimmed down her arms, tickled her waist, and slid down her legs, finally landing on her butt. “Sit down and eat something, child! You’re skin and bones.”
Ignoring the teasing, Hennessy said, “Gramma, I want you to meet my friend, Townsend Bartley.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the older woman said, a decided note of formality coloring her voice. “Welcome to South Carolina. Have you been here before?”
Townsend decided to deflect all questions, rather than risk saying the wrong thing. “I’m from Boston, and I haven’t had much chance to come down the coast.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your visit.” She grabbed a bowl and filled it with a rich-looking stew. “You need to put on a little weight, too, Townsend. Go sit down and start to work on this. I’ll send Hennessy out with something heftier in a minute.”
Realizing she was being dismissed, Townsend gave the woman a warm smile and did as she was told. She had a feeling Mrs. Boudreaux’s orders were usually followed to a T.
As soon as they were alone, Hennessy looked around and noted a decided lack of fish in the kitchen. “Daddy didn’t have a good day?”
“Didn’t come home last night,” her grandmother said, shaking her head. “Your granddaddy’s out trying to buy more fish. We had a hellacious crowd at lunch.”
“Can I help?”
“No, honey, you go sit with your friend. There’s nothing to do here until your granddaddy gets back. I just hope he doesn’t have to go to the grocery store. At those prices we might as well shut down for the night.”
“I’m sorry about Daddy,” Hennessy said quietly.
“I’m the one responsible for the boy. It’s not your fault he can’t pass a bar without drinkin’ it dry.”
“I know, but I’m still sorry.” As her grandmother hugged her again, Hennessy smelled the reassuring scents of grease, shrimp, spices and sweat that permeated her skin and clothes. “Let me grab a bowl of soup before I faint.” She ladled a healthy portion for herself and went out to sit next to Townsend at a white-painted picnic table.
“This is the best damned chowder I’ve ever tasted,” Townsend said, “and believe me, I’ve tasted a lot of it.”
“Thanks. Tell Gramma. She won’t accept a compliment to save her life, but she remembers every person who doesn’t give her one.” Taking a big bite, Hennessy sighed with pleasure. “Damn, she’s a fine cook. I’ve missed cooter soup somethin’ fierce.”
Narrowing her eyes, Townsend said, “Cooter?”
Hennessy waved her hand. “Just a name. We love colorful names.” If Townsend didn’t know she was eating turtle, there was no reason to tell her. Northerners could be very picky about what they considered edible.
“I think you’re hiding something, but I’m not gonna probe, baby girl.”
“Only my family calls me that,” Hennessy said, shrugging.
“It’s cute. But I prefer your real name.”
“Then why do you hardly ever use it? You usually call me ‘Chief.’”
“That’s because you think you’re in charge.”
“Think is the proper word,” Hennessy said, smirking.
They’d just started to eat when grandaddy returned. Hennessy jumped up to take a couple of plastic bags from his hand. “You must have had some luck.”
“I did. Jackson’s still had some shrimp, and they had enough frozen crab to last us for tomorrow. Saved me trawling all over the ocean. Now all I’ve got to do is clean ’em.”
“No way, Granddaddy. I’m gonna teach Townsend how to clean shrimp. We’ll start as soon as we eat our soup.”
“You girls are dressed awful nice to be cleanin’ shrimp. You’d best go change.”
“We will,” Hennessy said as she took the rest of the bags from her grandfather and placed them by their table. “But I’m not going to miss a bit of this soup. It’s like mother’s milk.”
Townsend hadn’t brought her shrimp cleaning clothes, so as soon as they’d finished lunch they went up to Hennessy’s room to find suitable attire. The room was extremely orderly, with Hennessy’s few personal articles placed just so on her white painted dresser. Her bed was small—so small that Townsend wondered how it contained her long body. “You’re not cold, are you?” Hennessy asked.
“No, the weather’s great here. Why?”
“Shorts are great.” She waited while Hennessy opened a drawer, revealing at least ten pairs of shorts—each pair one of the chalk colored ones from The Academy.
“I think I still have the ones I got when I was a freshman in high school,” Hennessy said, reaching into the bottom of the drawer. “Yeah, here they are.” She handed them over, then went to another drawer and pulled out a T-shirt extolling Habitat for Humanity. “This one’s old, too, so it shouldn’t be too huge on you.”
“Did you work on one of these projects?”
“Uh-huh. There was a project I helped with way out in the sticks when I was a sophomore in high school. Damn, the people out there were poor.”
Townsend tried to hide the look that was begging to jump onto her face. How much poorer could you be than this? That thought was followed closely by, this isn’t the sticks?
After an hour of hands-on instruction, Townsend felt capable of shelling shrimp with her eyes closed. She also firmly believed that she’d smell like shrimp for the rest of her life, and might possibly never eat another one. But Hennessy was in her element, talking more than Townsend had ever heard, sitting on the edge of the dock, chattering about nothing at all. She would occasionally launch into a short song, usually about fishing or drinking, her voice surprisingly melodic.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Chief. I had no idea you had such a beautiful voice.”
“Oh.” She looked a little embarrassed, then said, “I only sing when I’m really happy. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
“Well, you were, and you can sing for me anytime. Did you sing in school, or at church?”
“Just for myself. It’s a way to pass time on a fishing boat.”
“Is your dad out fishing now?”
“He is not,” Hennessy said, her good mood fading away. “That’s why my grandfather had to go buy fish. He and my gramma will barely break even tonight, but they’ll work just as hard as ever. He…” She stopped herself, then simply shook her head. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember he has a disease. I wouldn’t be mad at him if he had a seizure or something, but it’s tough seeing my grandparents have to struggle when he won’t pull his weight.”
The Right Time Page 14
