“Look at this pecky cypress coffee table,” I exclaimed. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“My grandfather made it,” Baby said, pouring us each a cold glass of white wine. “It’s made from cypress that grew on his place on the Santee River. He could make anything. That’s him as a little boy with my great-grandparents.” Baby nodded in the direction of the fireplace centered in the wall adjoining the kitchen.
We all drew near and studied the image. A smiling couple sat on a glider and a little boy sat on the porch floor in front of them with a fishing rod held like a scepter. The woman’s blonde hair was blowing in the breeze and the man’s arm was slung over her shoulder, his fingertips grazing her neck.
“What a great picture,” Rachel said, moving in for a closer look.
“Your grandparents and daddy?” Barbara asked.
“No! Great-grandparents and granddaddy,” Baby said emphatically. “This is my daddy.” She pointed at a handsome man in an Army uniform. They had the same nose.
I looked more closely at the first photo. “Oh! And it’s this house!” I swirled around, taking in the room.
“Yep. When they were all young and pretty,” Baby said, almost wistfully.
“Oh, my…you sure do favor your great-grandmother. She was stunning.”
Baby, uncharacteristically, didn’t respond. I glanced over in time to see her blush.
“Is this your mother?” Barbara asked, picking up a fading color snapshot of a woman holding up a glistening tarpon, the Atlantic in the background.
“That’s her. Josephine.” The timbre of her voice did not invite further exploration of that subject, so we moved on.
“You know what?” I said, my eyes flitting from one old treasure to the next.
“What?” Rachel walked over to a built-in bookcase and studied the titles.
“This place isn’t a vacation home; it’s a home home. Big difference.” And though the exterior might have looked similar to that of the house owned by the first Mrs. Teddy Patterson, this was definitely not Cornelia Colleton’s stuffy sterling-lace-and-porcelain house. A girl could get her groove on here.
“I’m glad you like it,” Baby said. “I really am.”
She was proud of this place, that was easy to see, and I began to understand why she and Teddy had been so insistent that we come out here.
“Well, Baby, what are you waiting for? We need the grand tour,” Barbara said, and then she downed her wine and held out her glass for more.
We wandered from room to room, throwing open cabinet and closet doors without asking. Baby kept up a continual monologue about who had done what where, but mostly we didn’t listen. We just oohed and ahhed and said, “Look at this!” to our hearts’ content.
The kitchen was similar to a farmhouse kitchen, complete with a pantry, a butcher’s block, a fireplace, a breakfast nook, a supper table, and an amazing AGA range. I admit, stone-cold envy took hold of me regarding that range, and I decided that when I got home, Mac and I would have a discussion about a remodel.
An enclosed sunroom with a sleeping couch and game table faced north, with a beautiful view of the dunes and beyond them, the ocean. Off the living room was a paneled library with three oversize cushy chairs. I could imagine Teddy lolling about in there, smoking cigars, drinking scotch, and reading his beloved historical novels.
“You haven’t seen the best yet,” Baby said, beaming, leading us upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“Good grief,” Rachel grumbled, gripping the rail.
Barbara merrily shrugged her shoulders. “The privilege of youth,” she whispered.
We crowded together on the landing, breathing heavily thanks to our attempt to keep up with Baby, and promptly fell into collective awe. “Jesus, Baby,” Rachel said, while both Barbara and I, in unison, murmured, “Wow.”
The landing was about a ten-by-ten area—virtually its own room—and on the north side, to the right of the stairs, loomed a picture window complete with a cushioned seat. A person could curl up, read a book, nap, or just gaze out at the water and dream.
“You can see forever!” Barbara pressed her face against the window. “Amazing.”
“My mama told me that Granddaddy brought a rocking chair up here and that’s where we sat for hours. Mama rocking me to sleep, telling me stories, singing me lullabies. When Teddy and I have kids, I’m going to do that too.”
“That’s nice,” I said, and I meant it, although her words—because they unintentionally opened up that nettle-filled crevice in my soul—made me wistful for what I didn’t have.
“Let me show you your rooms,” Baby said, heading down the hall that led from the landing. “We’re all staying in the ocean-side rooms,” she said breezily, “but if any of you want to move to the bay side, just let me know.”
Tiger’s Eye had six bedrooms, three with private baths and two with fireplaces. They all had four-poster beds and chifforobes. Chenille was everywhere.
“This is unbelievable,” Rachel said, poking her head into first one room and then another.
“Très magnifique!” Barbara said, her college French slipping off her tongue.
“I thought you guys could take these three. They’re side by side. The first two have their own baths. The last one…its bath is just across the hall. And I thought I’d sleep in the porch room—that’s what we call it—because we made that part of the porch a bedroom after my little brother was born. I like that it’s on the southeast corner. I dunno why.”
“I’ve got dibs on this one!” Barbara said, walking into the first bedroom.
“Which one has the bathroom across the hall?” Rachel asked.
“Third one down. And it has a key if you want to keep everyone else out of it.”
“All right. That’s mine.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t mind walking a few feet.”
“I prefer it,” Rachel said. And that was that. There was no talking Rachel out of something once she had made up her mind.
We spent the rest of the afternoon taking wine breaks and slowly getting our stuff up to the house and situating our rooms, which were lovely in every way, including their private exits onto the second-floor wraparound porch. Baby was helpful as could be, lugging our stuff and offering advice and saying things like “Lookee there! It’s a dolphin!” and “That sure is a handsome osprey!” and “Hmmm, looks like that ol’ coon got the turtle eggs. Blast his soul!”
Barbara was patient with Baby’s constant chatter; she was a seventh-grade teacher, after all. But Rachel of Little Tolerance was having a tough time and would walk several feet ahead of us as we trundled from the dock to the house with our provisions.
When we were finally done, we sat in lounge chairs on the second-floor porch, wine in hand, enjoying the sea breeze that felt both cool and salty on our skin, and Barbara said, “I am pooped!”
“We oughta go swimming,” Baby said, gazing out at the water, picking at a zit on her chin.
“I’m sitting right here. I am too exhausted to move a muscle,” Rachel said, and then she yawned as if to prove her point.
“Why don’t I fix us some sandwiches and we can eat them up here and then just fall into bed,” I said.
“Can I help?” Baby asked, jumping up, her halter going askew so we all saw way more of her left boob than we had a right to.
I knew she was trying to be nice, helpful even. And sharing this house with us was wonderfully generous. But I just could not bring myself to take her up on her offer. I suppose that by then, I’d had enough of her prattle too.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you go take a dip, these two can relax, and I’ll fix us something to eat. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
“Great!” she said, throwing her arms around me.
Rachel mouthed the word flake and Barbara waved her hands in a move-her-along gesture.
Then Baby literally ran into the house, down the stairs, and onto the beach,
where—to our profound surprise and dismay—she looked first left, then right, disrobed, and plunged buck naked into the ocean.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Rachel said. “She thinks she’s a freaking sea nymph.”
“Two weeks? Two entire weeks?” Barbara reached for the wine.
“What did you say back in Charleston, Barbara? About killing her?” Any guilt over being mean about Baby was erased by my astonishment at her stark nakedness.
Rachel stood and rested her hands on the rail, not taking her eyes off Baby, who was doing the backstroke, boobs up. “Well, ladies, we might not have any choice.”
* * *
I threw together a light dinner in that truly wonderful kitchen. There was something about this place, something to do with the generational comings and goings of a happy family, that made me feel at home. As I ran my hand along the stovetop’s shining surface, I thought, Maybe Mac and I should have adopted. I imagined myself in my kitchen with a little towheaded girl, sprinkling sugar over star-shaped cookies. I closed my eyes and pushed away the image. We both had decided that maybe fate or God or the universe or whatever might be out there had deemed that it should just be the two of us. And that was how it was going to be.
“Spilled milk,” I murmured. “No use fretting.”
I flung open the fridge door and began gathering what I needed. I’d made the cold cucumber soup ahead of time, knowing that on our first night we’d be bushed. I found my fresh dill and sweet onions—garnish for the soup—in the crisper and set them on the counter. The bacon, lettuce, tomato, and Havarti on toast would be done in a flash.
As I went about the business of prepping these simple ingredients, a calm quiet took hold. Cooking always does that for me, unless the pressure is on because I am catering an affair such as, say, a large corporate party. But here, in this good kitchen, fixing food for my friends, I was at ease.
I reached for the knife that I would use to dice the onions.
“It’s going to be a good August gathering, Melinda,” I whispered. I peeled away an onion’s skin.
“But we sure do miss you.”
* * *
I made Barbara go down and get Baby. Rachel and I watched from the front porch. It appeared from the gesturing and Barbara’s stunned expression that Barbara had to convince Baby to put her clothes back on. Barbara held open a beach towel, kept her head turned north, and did not watch as Baby spun herself into the towel.
“It’s going to be a long two weeks,” Rachel said.
“No. We’re just going to have to ignore her when we can’t take any more.”
“Damn Teddy Patterson straight to hell.”
“Let’s eat upstairs, like I said. From there, we can throw her off the porch.”
Rachel and I ferried the soup, which I’d put in a big Blue Willow tureen, and the sandwiches, which I’d tucked into a picnic basket I’d discovered in the pantry. As Barbara and Baby hit the door, I called over my shoulder, “Y’all bring the wine and napkins.”
Baby was fussing. Something about having sand up her boopie because she’d had to put her shorts on.
I heard Barbara gently tell her, “Well go wash the poor thing out.”
“Oh my God,” I said and started laughing.
Rachel sighed and set her lips in a thin, grim line.
As I unpacked the basket, Baby wiggle-walked out onto the porch, set down a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc, and said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” before fleeing into her room.
“Drama queen,” Barbara said as the screen door bounced on its hinges.
We gathered around the table we’d pulled over from the other side of the porch and heard the shower go on.
“Scrub that thang, girlie, scrub it!” Rachel said.
“What was going on out there?” I asked Barbara.
She poured herself a glass of wine and said, “She said it’s a tradition she and Teddy started. Their first night on the island, they always go skinny-dipping.”
“Did you tell her that Teddy isn’t here and we don’t want to see her bare bottom?” Rachel asked, reaching for a toasted BLT and cheese.
“La soupe est délicieuse. En vérité divine.” Barbara smacked her lips and even though I didn’t speak French, I caught her drift.
“Thank you, Babs. And you, I must say, are looking good. You’ve lost weight since last we saw you. And your hair is gorgeous.”
“Yeah. You look hot. What’s going on? You cheating on Hughy?”
“Far from it,” she said. “But thank you. I feel younger with that fifteen pounds gone.”
“Should we wait to eat until she’s out here?” I asked.
“Does it look like I’m waiting?” Rachel said with her mouth full.
I glanced over at Barbara, thinking she’d be laughing, but instead she looked anxious, as if perhaps my commenting on her appearance had upset her somehow. “You OK, Babs?”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” she said. “Should we talk about chore assignments now?”
“Hell no. That will wait until Miss Crabby Coochie gets out here,” Rachel said.
I snapped open my napkin, determined that our first shared meal on the island would not be ruined by Crabby Coochie’s presence or absence. As I slipped my spoon into the velvety soup, I asked, “How are the kids?”
“They’re fine,” both women answered in tandem.
“And Curry?” Rachel asked.
“She’s great. Seems to be loving Cambridge.”
“Hope she feels that way once school starts,” Barbara said. “But she should be A-OK. Smart girl, that one.”
“Yes, she is,” I said. And then we all fell silent, and not because we didn’t have anything to say, but because this wasn’t right. The set number was four. And Baby didn’t count. She wasn’t a girl of August. She just wasn’t.
After about thirty seconds of our staring out at the ocean, not eating, not drinking, Rachel finally said, “Oh, Christ. Let’s just get this over with. I will never forgive Teddy for taking Melinda from us. Never. I am still angry and still waiting for him to fess up that he was responsible.”
“It won’t bring her back,” Barbara said. “There’s nothing he can say or do to make it right.”
“But it’s his fault.”
“I don’t know, y’all,” I said. “I imagine Teddy feels worse than anybody about the accident. I mean, he really, really loved her.”
“He really loved who?”
We all jerked our gazes away from the water. There stood Baby, hair wet and combed flat. She’d slipped into a turquoise cotton shift. Barefoot, without any makeup on and sweetly tanned, the child was a natural beauty. I had to give her that.
“Melinda,” Rachel said. “Teddy really loved Melinda.”
Baby’s face quivered and turned scarlet, as if she might be on the precipice of tears. As I watched her, willing her not to break down, it dawned on me that being the third Mrs. Teddy Patterson was no walk in the park. The other wives, to varying degrees, were always in the room.
She pulled a chair over and Barbara made room for her on her side. Baby surveyed the soup and sandwiches. Her face brightened. “This looks great!” she said, spooning several ladlefuls of soup into her bowl. She dipped her sandwich into the soup and then said, her mouth full, “He still does.”
“He still does what?” Rachel asked, her eyes narrowing, snakelike.
“Teddy still loves Melinda.” Baby wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Evidently money did not automatically come with manners. “And that’s OK.” She glugged her wine, set down the glass, and, with barely a pause, said, “He should love her. I wouldn’t want to be with a man who fell out of love with his dead wife.”
Barbara did not conceal her surprise. “Wow! That’s a great attitude, Baby. I’m sure Teddy appreciates it.”
Baby nodded, her normally animated face still and serious. And serious looked funny on her, like when a little child tries to explain to a parent a situation she finds grave and inexplicable.
“I told Teddy that I think of her like my sister. And I want to do right by her.” Then Baby said, “But I don’t know if I can.”
I glanced at Rachel, who was not convinced. She opened her mouth, and I was sure a poison-tipped arrow was about to fly, so I jumped in.
“Baby, Melinda was a very fine person. And we miss her something terrible. But that doesn’t affect how we see you.”
“Awwww! Thank you!” Baby’s eyes brightened. “I just love you guys!” she said.
Rachel responded by making a clucking sound.
And that’s pretty much how our first night on Tiger Island went. We ate good, simple food, drank lots of wine, divided the chores among us (I would play chef and Barbara would be my assistant, Baby would do the dishes, Rachel would take out the trash), and, as the nearly full moon rose up out of the water, we talked about silly things, dreams of little consequence. Baby wanted a diamond tennis bracelet for her twenty-third birthday, which was just three months away. “And a dog. I want a little dog that we get from the pound.”
Rachel said that if she were rich, she’d give away every last penny, except she’d give a modest sum to each of her five kids. “Ollie could fend for himself,” she said, and when she did, her voice broke. I looked at her sharply—she was not given to public displays of emotion—and I sensed there was some sort of trouble brewing, but on that night, under the glow of that big moon, I could not imagine what problems might be rattling Rachel.
Barbara said that if she could have anything in the world it would be that all her friends and relatives, both living and dead, would have a “big ol’ soiree” and everybody would tell the truth about everything. “Talk about a reckoning!” she said, giggling, but the laughter did not reach her eyes, and I wondered if both she and Rachel had come on this trip with suitcases full of secrets.
The Girls of August Page 6
