Miss Julia Weathers the Storm

by Ann B. Ross

  Chapter 11

  As Sam aimed the car toward the interstate, LuAnne curled up in her half of the backseat, making good use of the pillow she hadn’t wanted, and gave every indication of avoiding conversation. She’d barely spoken to Sam, who had been his normally solicitous self, welcoming her, and making sure that she was comfortable. It was going to be a long, silent drive, but Sam had thought of that as well.

  “I picked up some CDs, Julia,” he said, pointing to a sack in the footwell. “See if there’s anything you want to listen to.”

  “What a good idea,” I said, although I would miss the lively conversations that he and I would’ve normally had. I don’t know why being enclosed in a car so encouraged us to talk, but it did. Not that we didn’t talk at home—but somehow the close proximity of two bucket seats loosened our tongues. We told jokes, discussed friends, analyzed politicians, spoke of spiritual matters, and, in general, set the world aright. But not this time with LuAnne in the backseat and a black thundercloud surrounding her. As it was, I couldn’t even tell him about the step-ins she’d found in Leonard’s shaving kit, a subject that would’ve certainly engendered a lively discussion.

  So we listened to a book on CD about a feisty woman who speaks her mind, hitches a ride on a Harley—at her age, too—and serves open-faced cucumber sandwiches on a silver tray.

  By the time we pulled into the parking lot at Piggy Park in Columbia, I was more than ready to stop. In the two hours since we’d left home we’d passed two rest stops, either of which would’ve suited me, especially the second one. But LuAnne had slept the whole way, and I hadn’t wanted to wake her by stopping. So while Sam placed our orders, LuAnne and I, with a great deal of anticipation, adjourned to the ladies’ room.

  Being close to forty-five minutes behind the Pickens and the Bates families, we missed having lunch with them. But as soon as we’d parked, Sam had talked to Lloyd on his fancy phone and learned that they were well on their way to the beach. The babies, he’d told Sam, were sleeping in their car seats, Latisha was coloring, and his mother was napping. J.D., he said, had the radio turned low to Rush Limbaugh, but not quite low enough. J.D. was talking back to him.

  Sam also checked in with Coleman and Binkie, who were ahead of the Pickens car—they’d had only one child to see to at lunchtime, while Hazel Marie had had four.

  —

  By the time we were back on the interstate heading southeast, LuAnne was showing signs of rejuvenation. As well she should after consuming a large pulled-pork barbeque sandwich with coleslaw, French fries, half of my onion rings, and a pint jar of tea—lemoned and sugared. She was ready to talk, and talk she did. Far from hiding her head and her shame as she had been doing, she let it all out.

  “Sam,” she said, leaning forward as far as the seat belt allowed, “thank you for lunch and for inviting me to the beach. I appreciate all you and Julia are doing for me in my time of need. But I have to ask. Did you know what Leonard was doing? Have you heard any talk about him? I mean, I know that you keep up with what’s going on in town, so I want to know what people are saying and what they think of him and, let’s be honest, what they think of me. Because I know in cases like this, the wife is usually to blame. I mean, not actually, but people assume that she’s to blame. And I want everybody to know that I have catered to Leonard Conover, hand and foot, for all these years, and this is the way he repays me.”

  “Well—” Sam began, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Now I know you’re no longer practicing law, but you haven’t forgotten what you knew when you were, so I want to know if I can sue that woman—whoever she is—for something. Like alienation of affection or something.”

  As Sam opened his mouth to reply, LuAnne kept right on going. “On the other hand,” she said, “I think Leonard is losing his mind. I mean, he can’t remember a thing from one day to the next, so it could be early onset of Alzheimer’s, couldn’t it? Although at his age, you couldn’t exactly call it early. Anyway, could I have him declared non compost mentis or something and have him committed? And if that happens, I will most certainly see to it that that woman has no access to him. Which is another reason that I need to know who she is, so if either of you have heard anything, anything at all, that would put me on the right track to her, I want to hear it.”

  “Well, LuAnne—” I began, but she wasn’t through. Bless her heart, it was as if a dam had burst and all the fear and anger and general unsettledness that she was experiencing came rushing out.

  “One thing’s for sure,” she said, giving in to the pull of the seat belt and sitting back, “I’m going to follow your advice, Julia, and hold my head up high. I’m not the one who’s broken our marriage vows, and that brings up another problem. It says until death do us part, so does that mean I’ve vowed to stick with him regardless of what he’s done? I mean, he’s already broken his vows, so does that release me of mine or am I supposed to overlook everything and keep on putting up with him in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and all the rest of it?”

  “That’s a conundrum, all right,” Sam said, finally able to complete a sentence. “And, I’m afraid, one that only you can resolve.”

  “Well,” she said, “I think Leonard needs counseling, except he won’t go. But I really think he’s sick. Nobody normal does such a thing, don’t you think, Julia? I mean, you’ve been through the same thing. Didn’t you think that Wesley Lloyd was sick? Mentally, I mean, not physically, because we know he was physically sick. After all, he did have a heart attack, but didn’t you think he had mental problems, too?”

  “I have no idea, LuAnne,” I said. I did not want to discuss Wesley Lloyd Springer’s aberrations, especially with Sam sitting right there with us. Besides, Sam and I had talked it all out long before this and had come to the conclusion that as wayward as Wesley Lloyd had been while he was alive, he’d done both of us a huge favor in the long run. Sam and I no longer had need to bring it up, much less to talk it to death.

  Which was exactly what LuAnne seemed intent on doing. I just wished she’d get off the subject of my former husband and quit comparing her current situation to what had once been mine.

  “Well,” LuAnne said, “there ought to be something I could do. It’s just not right that he can do whatever he wants while I have no recourse but to put up with it.”

  “That’s not true, LuAnne,” Sam said, glancing in the rearview mirror at her. “You have several options, but they all depend on what you want in the long run. So you need to think it through very carefully.” Sam stopped, then, as if gathering his courage, went on to say, “It might be a good idea to think about consulting a counselor yourself.”

  “I’m not the one who needs a counselor,” LuAnne snapped, taking immediate umbrage at the suggestion.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that you need one,” Sam said quickly. “I just meant that discussing the situation with somebody who’s completely objective might help you weigh all the options.”

  “Well,” she said somewhat huffily, “I wouldn’t want it to get around town that I was seeing a counselor. First thing you know, the talk would be all about me fooling around on Leonard. You know how the town is, Julia. No telling what they’d make of that. But, come to think of it,” she said, suddenly switching gears, “maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Wonder what Leonard would do if he heard something like that? Because I have certainly had opportunities as every woman has at some time or another. Right, Julia?”

  “Don’t count me in on that, LuAnne,” I said, trying to make light of the turn her thoughts were making. “I had only one opportunity, which was Sam.” I reached for his hand on the console. “And I grabbed him while I could.”

  “Well, it’s something to think about,” LuAnne said. “Not that there’s much to choose from in Abbotsville.”

  “There’s always Thurlow Jones,” I said, turning to look at her so she’d know I was teasin
g. I was referring to the town’s most eligible bachelor, if, that is, you could overlook his outlandish behavior and general state of dishevelment.

  “Huh,” she said dismissively, but I saw a smile at the corner of her mouth. “On the other hand, it might not be a bad idea for you to imply something, Julia. I mean, just to put a question in the minds of one or two that I haven’t been averse to a little romance. The town would take it from there, and we’d see how Leonard liked that.”

  All of a sudden I realized that she might not be teasing and hurriedly tried to tamp down her aspirations in the romance department. “Oh, you don’t mean that, LuAnne. Your reputation is spotless, and you don’t want to ruin it just because Leonard has ruined his. You have to rise above it and show that you’re better than that.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, curling up in her corner of the backseat again. “Maybe I’ll talk to Pastor Ledbetter. I know he’ll give me good advice.”

  Oh, Lord, I thought, because if the pastor gave her the same advice he’d given me, she would not be happy.

  Chapter 12

  Pastor Ledbetter’s advice had turned me inside out. I’d listened to a long lecture on my marital duties, the primary one being submission to my lot as a betrayed wife who should have a forgiving heart that would leave retribution to the Lord. Bitterly resenting the advice, I was angered to the point of considering divorcing Wesley Lloyd in absentia because by then he was beyond my reach.

  Leonard, however, was near at hand, and LuAnne was not an easily appeased person. She would not—perhaps could not—merely throw up her hands and leave him to the Lord. She’d be compelled to do something, and it was what that something might be that worried me. My hope was that two weeks away from the fray would give her time to rein in her temper, as well as her impulse to maim, cripple, mutilate, or permamently disable her solace-seeking husband.

  By this time, an hour or so beyond Columbia, I had begun to discern the gradual change of scenery as we neared our destination. The land was noticeably lower in grade, the highway at times elevated above reed-filled, black-water swamps. Long stretches of slender pine trees on both sides of the roadway flashed past our windows, and I caught glimpses of streamers of Spanish moss as we sped along. I knew from former visits to the coast that outside our air-conditioned interior the atmosphere would be heavy with humidity, filled as it was with swamp and paper mill odors, as well as the distinctive aroma of low tide and stranded fish that meant we were close to the ocean.

  “Here we go,” Sam said, turning onto the curving exit ramp to I-526 East that took us over the spectacular cable-stayed bridge that took my breath away as well. A few more miles brought us across some less notable bridges and finally to the long, straight street that led to the gated north end of the Isle of Palms itself.

  “LuAnne,” I said, looking back at her, “are you awake? We’re almost there.”

  She pushed away the bulky package of Huggies that had slid on top of her and struggled to sit up. “Well, finally. I hate long trips and I’m glad this one’s over. Except now we’ll have to lug in all the luggage and this blamed pack of diapers that I’ve fought with the whole way.”

  “Well, you can stretch out in a nice, big bed tonight,” I said, refusing to be drawn into her complaints, knowing that she’d have even more to complain about after the sleepless night she was bound to have. I mean, she’d slept most of the day, which in itself was a cause for concern. LuAnne was a goer and a doer. She didn’t take naps or sit down to rest, yet sleep was all she’d done and apparently all she’d wanted to do. That, I supposed, was her way of dealing with the turmoil in her mind—just close up shop and put it all off till later.

  After a quick stop at the rental office to sign papers and pick up extra keys, Sam drove another mile or so, then turned into a deep yard. “Here we are,” he said, parking the car between the Pickenses’ large vehicle and the Bateses’ smaller version.

  I looked up at the looming yellow house, noting that the back, with its screened porch, faced the street so that the front would have the ocean view. Latticework covered what I’d call the basement floor, while outside stairs led up to the main floor. Getting luggage inside would not be an easy job.

  But then Coleman and Mr. Pickens came clamoring down the stairs, welcoming us, and yelling to the children to stay where they were. With such willing hands to unload the car, LuAnne and I made it easily up the stairs in spite of stiff joints from sitting most of the five hours it had taken to get us there.

  The children—Little Gracie, Lily Mae, Julie, and Latisha—danced excitedly around as we walked into the huge center room that ran from the back of the house to the front. A well-appointed kitchen lined the back wall, separated from the large living area by a monstrous island. You could stand at the back wall of the room, look across the island, the many feet of wooden floor filled with sofas, chairs, rugs, and tables—plus an outlandishly large televison set—then through the windowed front wall, across the screened front porch, and see the horizon beyond dunes, beach, and a few miles of Atlantic Ocean.

  “Miss Lady!” Latisha yelled, pulling at my hand. “Miss Lady! You oughtta see that big ole ocean. I never seen nothin’ like it!”

  “You’ve already seen it?”

  “We sure have! First crack outta the box, Lloyd’s daddy took us down there. And then made us all come back an’ stay here inside. Look like forever, too, ’cause I’m ready to go back.”

  “You’ll have plenty of chances, Latisha. Oh, hey, Little Gracie,” I said as the little, curly-headed girl—so much like Binkie—sidled up close. “Are you having a good time?”

  She nodded solemnly, while the Pickens twins stopped hopping around and stood back to eye LuAnne with suspicion. I declare, Mr. Pickens could never in this world deny those two little girls. With their black eyes and soft, black hair, there was nothing at all of Hazel Marie about them. But maybe outwardly favoring their daddy meant that they’d inherited their mother’s sweet nature. Which would be much more of a blessing than the other way around.

  “Where’s your mother?” I asked Lloyd, touching him lightly because I couldn’t help myself. He was standing among the younger children, grinning at us.

  “She’s gone to the grocery store with Binkie,” he said, gently separating himself from one of his sisters who was clamped onto his leg. “We’re all about to starve.”

  “I thought that was your daddy’s job—his and Coleman’s.”

  “Mama had second thoughts,” Lloyd said, laughing. “Binkie, too. She said no telling what they’d come back with.” Lloyd took my hand and said, “Come on, Miss Julia, I’ll show you your room. Mama said if you didn’t like it, she’d change with you.”

  He led me to the large bedroom suite to the left of the center room, and at first glance I could tell it was more than adequate. In fact, I was quite pleased with it—Sam had certainly fulfilled his promise.

  “This is really nice,” LuAnne said. She’d followed us into the room and was now opening closet doors. “But where will I sleep?”

  “Well,” Lloyd said, “Mama and Binkie looked at all the rooms, then they decided who would sleep where. Mama and J.D. have the suite across the way there because it has a little room next to it for the twins. Binkie and Coleman took the room above this one, and the room behind it will be for Gracie and Latisha. Mrs. Conover, you have the room above Mama and J.D.’s. You’ll like it. It’s real nice and it has an ocean view. But Mama said everything could be rearranged any way you wanted it. She just had to get unpacked so she could change the twins. They needed it.”

  “And what about you?” I asked. “Where will you sleep?”

  “I’ve got the whole third floor,” he said. “Except I have to keep the babies out. J.D. said he didn’t want to see either one of ’em come tumbling down two flights of stairs. So that whole big space is just for me. But,” he went on somewhat wryly but not a
t all ashamed to admit it, “if I get lonesome up there, I’ll bunk out on a sofa.”

  “Lloyd?” Latisha said, frowning. “I’m not a baby, so can I come up to your room? I won’t fall down the stairs, so can I come up?”

  “Yes, you can,” he said. “But entrance to the penthouse is by invitation only.”

  “I don’t know what kinda house that is,” Latisha said, “but I’ll let you know when I’m coming.”

  By that time, the men had unloaded the car and now several suitcases, shopping bags, and the Huggies package stood in the living room, waiting to be distributed to the correct rooms.

  Coleman wiped his face with his sleeve. “Man, it’s hot out there. Still, too. Where’s that ocean breeze you promised, Sam?”

  “Low tide,” Sam said. “It’ll pick up in a while. Well, Julia,” he went on, turning to me, “what do you think?”

  “I think you’ve outdone yourself. The place is lovely, Sam, and perfect for us. Of course, though,” I said, smiling at him, “I haven’t been upstairs yet.”

  “Oh, you’ll like it!” Latisha said, her piercing voice drowning out everybody else. “Come on, I’ll show you.” And up the stairs she raced with LuAnne and me following more sedately.

  Mr. Pickens grabbed a twin in each arm as they started to follow us up the stairs. “Oh, no, you don’t.” He carried them to the front porch—screened in like the back one—and set them down in the middle of a pile of toys already unpacked and strewn around. All I could think of as we reached the second floor was what a time we’d have when we had to pack up and reload the cars.

  Latisha showed us the room she would share with Little Gracie, announcing that it was as pretty as any you’d see on “that ole HGTV.”

  LuAnne, thank goodness, was pleased with her room and, I think, maybe a little stymied that she could find nothing to complain about. It was, in fact, equal to the master bedrooms downstairs except for having two full-sized beds instead of one king, which was perfect for LuAnne and Etta Mae.