Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  “You sleep tight,” he replied. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” she whispered.

  Fudge. She clicked off and stared at the ceiling. Harrison was done playing the guitar now. She wondered where he was. She couldn’t hear a thing from Weezie’s or Gage’s rooms. Was Harrison in the bathroom brushing his teeth? Or maybe he was getting ready to take a shower. The pipes here were in miserable shape. He’d told her he’d take his shower at night so they wouldn’t have to fight over hot water in the morning.

  Her imagination switched on like a movie projector and produced an unwelcome image of her walking into the bathroom and slipping into the shower stall with him.

  Stop.

  She turned over to face the wall, shut her eyes, and tried to be thankful that Dubose was going to fix those same water pipes next year. He was thoughtful. And thorough. He’d make an excellent husband.

  But she couldn’t sleep. The wedding was on her mind. Weezie and school. Harrison and his sexiness. Carmela and her store that would have to close soon. Her own U-pick business. Gage and his new house. The dogs and going to the vet for their shots. Dubose and all the work he was doing in New York.

  Harrison, asleep next door.

  Dubose’s mother drinking tea in England.

  Dubose and the shock he’d feel when he came home and the wedding was in shambles.

  An hour passed. Two.

  Was Harrison asleep? Or was he tossing and turning like her? Who could she talk to? Who?

  It was all too much.

  Go, something inside her whispered. It was her studio voice, the one that took over at the most inconvenient times.

  She slid out of bed, crept down the hall, and opened a skinny door that looked like a linen closet. But it led to the attic, to Honey’s old music room—with an electronic keyboard, Honey’s ukulele, her old vinyl 1940s albums, and a turntable. True had converted it into a studio. When she got to the top of the stairs, she flipped on the light and breathed in deeply.

  Ah, the smell up here—paint, canvas, fabric, varnish, wood, and old memories—always revived her. Gave her new ideas. Hope.

  She walked carefully, knowing exactly where the creaking floorboards were, and spent two hours sifting through her canvases and then sketching a new idea for a collage—the one of Harrison with all his fans in Atlanta.

  She got on her knees with her notepad and sketched another possible scene on the floor in a beam of moonlight. This one was of the dogs and Gage watching TV together in the front parlor.

  Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

  And then she was done for the night. She laid her pencil aside and felt the peace and strength seep into her bones. Her body was ready to rest. Her mind was calm, clear. The house, dignified and quiet, reminded her of her purpose. It was the house that Dubose was going to help her save. It would become their family home. Her children would sleep, eat, run, and dream here.

  Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, she would fix this wedding problem once and for all, and she’d do it for her future husband. He’d done so much for her.

  She treaded carefully down the stairs and closed the attic door behind her. When she got to her room, she saw Harrison’s closed door. Unbelievable, to think that he was here. He made a great subject for a canvas. He was the quintessential country music star—a fantasy man, not husband material. He could wave his magic wand (magic guitar?) and he’d make all her wedding problems go away.

  But she wouldn’t use his help.

  She was a magic woman.

  When she remembered to be.

  * * *

  When True woke up the next morning, she knew instantly what she had to do. She must go see Penn’s best friend, Lila Dunworth. She lived on the water in a big mansion next to Rosewood, the Waring estate. Before anyone came downstairs—even Gage, who was an early riser—she slipped out the back door and walked quietly to her car. She knew Lila would be awake. Penn always said she exercised at six in the morning then went straight to her garden. She was a renowned botanical specialist. But she was known also as a supreme hostess. Once she’d even appeared on NPR to talk about the art of throwing a good party. She’d written a book on the subject, too. So she would definitely know every caterer in the area.

  “How are you this morning?” Lila asked her when she showed up in her backyard flower garden. True had texted her to make sure it was all right that she came over.

  “Worried.” True followed behind her into a small glassed-in porch at the back of the house. Lila indicated a chair, and she sank into it. “Thanks so much for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure.” Lila was always the lady but never particularly warm. She wore casual L.L. Bean–style clothes—ironed jeans and a floral cotton blouse with a pair of English garden clogs—and tons of gold jewelry. Her white-blond hair was swept up in a chignon and sprayed into place.

  “Did you talk to Penn about the wedding before she went to England?” True asked her.

  “No.” Lila had a soft, elegant voice. “I was in Augusta teaching a workshop on how to serve lunch to the press before the Masters. I missed her. Is something going on? You don’t look too well, to tell the truth.”

  True smiled weakly. “I’m not getting much sleep, that’s why.” She proceeded to tell Lila what had happened with the caterer and venue. “I wondered if there’s anything you can do, please, to help me get them back?”

  Lila sighed. “If Penn can’t, then I can’t, either.”

  “Can you help me get someone else then, please? You know everyone. I looked through your entertaining book this morning, and it’s marvelous how extensive your network of connections is.”

  Lila smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No one will help you this late in the game. They have reputations to protect. How can any caterer put forth his or her best effort if the wedding date is so close?”

  “But wouldn’t that prove how good they are? Wouldn’t word spread like wildfire that they’re amazing under pressure?”

  Lila shook her head. “It’s the busy season. No one can afford to take that risk. Not only that, they don’t need to. They have too many clients as it is.”

  True inhaled deeply. “So … you can’t help me?”

  Lila walked to a small desk, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “These two women are gardening friends of mine from Augusta who’ve moved out to Seabrook Island. I’ll call them and see if they can have lunch with you. But I wouldn’t count on anything. They sometimes help me put together parties for large crowds. On a lark. They’re premier hostesses in their own right.”

  “Thank you.” Any lead was a good thing.

  Lila came back a few minutes later. “They’ll meet you at Magnolia’s in downtown Charleston at eleven thirty.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Lila!” True wanted to hug her, but she wouldn’t dare. She noticed there’d been no tut-tutting about the absolute awfulness of the situation. Nothing warm or sympathetic in Lila’s manner. But their families had known each other forever. Didn’t she have any sense of nostalgia and desire to help based on that alone?

  She’s like Penn, True thought. And had the horrible feeling that neither one of them liked her. How could she have not noticed before? But she comforted herself with the thought that Mama had come across as a cold fish, too, yet she’d loved True. She’d simply been unable to show it very well.

  True to form, Lila merely stood in the doorway of her home and watched True drive away with a standard polite smile on her face.

  At lunch, the two women greeted her warmly. One was silver-haired and wore smart designer eyeglasses and wide pants, like Katharine Hepburn. The other was probably mid-thirties, with curly auburn hair and a ’50s kitsch appeal about her. Maybe it was her pale yellow pencil skirt, formfitting white blouse, and matching plaid hair band. They asked question after question about what True was looking for.

  “Elegant finger food,” she told them. Southerners generally didn’t have sit-down dinners at their wedding receptions.
“Open bar. The best of everything. For two hundred fifty people. And I’ll need a spectacular place, one to showcase a string quartet and a band. Of course, we’ll need a dance floor, too.”

  They didn’t seem fazed by any of her desires. She felt hope. Huge hope. And then over coffee at the conclusion of the meal, the silver-haired one said, “I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

  The other one nodded in agreement.

  True’s eyes widened in shock. “Are … are you sure?” She looked back and forth between them. Sunlight streamed through the large bay window facing East Bay Street and sparkled off the older woman’s glasses. “You seemed so interested. And you didn’t even confer with each other before saying no. What happened?”

  “We really wanted to try Magnolia’s since it’s been restyled,” said the younger one.

  “What?” True stared at her in disbelief.

  The older one patted True’s hand. “And offer you our sympathy.”

  “Of course,” said the younger one. “I meant that, too.”

  “Thanks,” True said. For nothing.

  “You poor bride,” the Katharine Hepburn one murmured. “There’s no way you’ll be able to pull off what you’re looking for in the amount of time you have.”

  “Perhaps you should change direction.” The younger one languidly stirred a little cream into her coffee. “We think you should elope.”

  “It’ll be the only way to save face,” said the older one. “People will find it charming and stylish if you do it right. And you have no other option as far as I can see.”

  “But how will she get the word out in time?” Her copper-haired friend leaned on her fist and looked suitably curious.

  “She’ll need to start now,” the bespectacled one said. “It will require a quickly drawn-up card at the stationery store. And then a mass mailing.”

  “Not Paperless Post?” said the younger one.

  “Not in Charleston, honey.” The older one lowered her spectacles and chuckled. “We should buy stock in all the stationery stores around here. They’ll never go out of business. We can go with her right now and help her pick out a card.” She looked expectantly at True. “You don’t have a moment to waste, dear.”

  True picked up her pocketbook, her fingers trembling, and pulled out thirty dollars to cover her portion of the meal and tip. She placed it on the table. “No, thank you. I don’t know what to say, other than good-bye.” She turned and walked away, almost colliding with a waiter.

  “Good-bye,” the older woman called after her.

  “And good luck,” the younger one chimed in.

  Of all the nerve!

  It took True the full thirty-five-minute drive back to Biscuit Creek to calm down.

  She was utterly miserable all afternoon and hid at the public library. She couldn’t go home and face Harrison. She knew he’d have too many questions. And she also didn’t want to talk to Carmela. True didn’t want to bother her at work. She also dreaded hearing what her best friend would say. What if she agreed with those women that eloping was the best thing?

  Perhaps it was. She’d already mentioned that as a possibility to Penn. She didn’t mind for herself. But she knew that Penn would think she’d failed. And Dubose … well, he’d be seriously disappointed.

  But what could she do?

  Nothing.

  She needed to call him ASAP. So she gathered her courage and did just that. But all afternoon, his phone went to voice mail.

  “Call me when you can,” she told his mailbox recording. “We need to talk about the wedding.” She tried not to inject any panic into her tone.

  She couldn’t hide forever from Harrison. Late that afternoon they got ready to drive Weezie to Trident Tech’s evening open house.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said Weezie. “You meet all the teachers and tour the place, and then there’s some kind of barbecue afterward.”

  “Good,” True said. “We won’t have to worry about dinner.” She looked at Gage. “Carmela said she’s coming by with her special lasagna.”

  “She is?” Gage’s brows shot up.

  “That’s mighty nice of her,” Harrison said.

  It really was. If True didn’t know any better, she’d think Carmela was trying to impress Gage. First a pie, and now a lasagna? She stole a swift glance at Harrison’s brother. He was really handsome. But from all accounts, he barely spoke to Carmela at the store. And Carmela had never mentioned him before yesterday. Maybe she had a thing for Harrison and just didn’t want to say so.

  “I’m meeting my friends after the tour at the barbecue,” Weezie said. “The people I want to room with. Remember?”

  “You’re not rooming with anyone,” True reminded her. “You’re staying with me and Dubose at his mother’s guesthouse while Maybank Hall undergoes some renovations. Then you’ll come back here to live with us.”

  “No, I won’t,” said Weezie, a stubborn light in her eyes. “If I have to, I’ll work to make my rent. And I’ll also pay my tuition if you won’t. I’m not your daughter. And Dubose isn’t my father. He’s your problem, not mine.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “That’s my final say for today.”

  That last part was her latest talk show sign-off. A few weeks ago, it had been: We got this, Biscuit Creek, followed by a wink.

  True refrained from rolling her eyes. “Can we talk about this later? I was ready to go, but I’ve just now decided I need to wear something a little snazzier to match Harrison.”

  He looked justifiably proud. “You do that. But I’m a stickler for being on time. It’s the one OCD trait Gage and I share. So no dawdling. You’d look gorgeous in a paper bag anyway.”

  True tried to let her annoyance at his bossiness outweigh the fluttery, flattered sensation she felt at his outrageous compliment, but it was a struggle. When she got back downstairs exactly four minutes and twenty seconds later, Gage was busy straightening the dogs on the porch. They’d been lying in a heap, but now their wet noses—mostly black, although Ed’s looked like a red rubber eraser—were all lined up in a pretty row.

  “Whoa,” Harrison said. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” True tried her best not to blush, but she felt the heat creep up her neck.

  “Shall we?” He held out his arms—one to each woman—and escorted them to the Maserati.

  True didn’t know why she felt as if this were a date. It definitely wasn’t, especially with Weezie in the mix. But she was ready for someone else to take charge for a little while so she could stew in her misery.

  Weezie wanted to do something similar. She sat in the backseat with her iPod turned up too high and her earbuds firmly plugged into her ears, her expression a combination of resentment and nerves. Slowly, True noticed in the visor mirror, it gave way to absorption in her music. Thank God. She didn’t know what she was going to do with that girl.

  “No way she can live on her own,” she said to Harrison in low tones.

  “You think not?” In the confined space of the car he was bursting with more than his usual masculine appeal—which was already huge—in his navy blazer, collared white silk shirt (which he wore open one-button-too-many), chunky cuff links at his wrists, khaki pants, tasseled loafers, and very subtle cologne. It was the southern man’s uniform. Ben Silver had done him right. But that dangerous extra button he’d undone, along with his long hair and new stubble, added an insouciance that proclaimed him his own man.

  “I think it would be disastrous,” she said. “Hey, what about your disguise?”

  “I am disguised,” he said, and pulled a pair of John Lennon wireframes out of his jacket pocket and put them on. “I’m Terence Jones, a man who looks a lot like Harrison Gamble. It’s my out-in-the-open disguise. Risky, but sometimes necessary when large hats and dark sunglasses won’t fly. Terence is gay. So keep that in mind if you try to have your way with me in a broom closet at the open house. It’ll be an epic fail.”

  “Aw, shucks,” she said sarcastically, but insi
de she was still mortified about how obvious she’d been at the beach house, yearning after him like a desperate fan.

  He chuckled.

  “Well, I hope Terence Jones works for you.” She kept her tone airy so he wouldn’t guess that inside she was still a seething cauldron of feelings for him. “We’ll need to get Weezie in on the act.”

  “I already have. When you ran upstairs to change outfits, I talked to her about not giving you a hard time tonight. I also said that if she wants to live on her own, she needs to prove her trustworthiness to you. She totally agreed.”

  “Oh?” True could handle Weezie herself. But as she’d asked Harrison to accompany them tonight for moral support, she couldn’t very well complain when he butted in, now, could she? Nevertheless, she was slightly irritated. “By the bye,” she said testily, “your hair looks better than mine.”

  “I disagree. Yours is a marvel, all shiny and swingy with that little flip on the end.”

  Once more she refused to be flattered, but that silly feeling came back anyway, the one that craved him noticing everything about her—then kissing her senseless.

  What was her problem?

  “But I’ll pass on the compliment to Biscuit Creek’s own barber, Henry Carter, anyway,” Harrison went on. “He’s never heard the term hair product in his life. Which reminds me, I’ve had a good day with the locals. When it comes down to it, not a one of ’em thinks I’m a big deal. And I love it. Old Mrs. Finch, who has enough medical issues to warrant opening a hospital in her honor, made me carry her empty basket while she picked out her ripe tomatoes one by one. Now, that was a good time. I know more about the perils of improper digestion than I ever thought possible. You need to buy more food with fiber, by the way. I did a quick rundown of your cupboards.”