Choosing Charleston

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “So the tractors will start rolling soon?” I said.

  Trent nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  I retrieved an envelope from Granny’s handbag. “Well, then, I’d better give you this to keep your boys on break a little longer.”

  Mister Protter’s eyebrows rose simultaneously with Daddy’s.

  Trent’s eyes darkened and his words were stiff. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s in there, Carly.”

  “I’d be happy to save you some time. Woodpeckers. You’ve got some.”

  “So?”

  “Red-cockaded woodpeckers. They’re an endangered species. It’s illegal to disturb a nesting area. And guess what?”

  “Do tell,” Trent said through clenched teeth. His father looked thoughtful, almost amused. Daddy was slowly shaking his head.

  “My ornithologist has located three active red-cockaded woodpecker homes,” I picked up a pencil to use as a pointer and paused with enough dramatic effect that would have made even Jenny proud, “right here. Just outside the footprint of building number three, in this parking area.”

  “Woodpeckers.”

  “They just love the seventy- and eighty-year-old longleaf pines.”

  Trent’s nostrils flared as he inhaled through his nose, lips pressed tightly together to prevent the nasty thoughts in his brain from emerging as words. He looked at his father, who only raised an eyebrow. He looked at Daddy, who made a near identical motion, but added a shoulder shrug.

  Trent was furious. “This is a bunch of crap! Another stalling tactic. Whatever nests you’ve found could belong to any kind of woodpeckers.”

  “Crap!” Hunter said, but everyone was so engrossed in the drama that nobody bothered to hush him. “Crap!” he said, trying again.

  “No they can’t,” I rebutted. “You see, the red-cockaded is the only woodpecker on earth that carves a home out of the trunk of a living tree, and just pecking away long enough to reach the heartwood of the pine, where they make their hole, takes years. And, once they’ve got their hole, they come back to the same tree year after year.”

  “Crap!” Hunter said. This time Granny hushed him by tweaking his ear.

  “Besides, the ornithologist got some great pictures last week with a telephoto lens. Luckily, we’re in the peak nesting season right now.”

  Trent looked like he wanted to hit something.

  “We’re familiar with the endangered bird,” Mister Protter said. “But we’ve not encountered any so far. Don’t they typically nest in undeveloped areas of a couple hundred acres or more? This plat is only sixty-two acres.”

  “You’re right,” I told him. “But since Hurricane Hugo hit in ‘eighty-nine and destroyed a lot of their nesting trees, the birds have been doing unusual things, just trying to survive. And you’ve got three families of them living on your land.”

  “What does this mean?” Trent demanded. “What’s the bottom line?”

  He was a bottom-line kind of person, too. Like me.

  “It means the trees have been marked with white circles, and you can’t cut them down. In fact, you’re not allowed to develop within several hundred yards of an active red-cockaded woodpecker habitat. To do so would be a state and federal offense.”

  “Can’t the birds be relocated?” Mister Protter asked. “I’ve heard of relocation programs for other protected species”

  There was a possibility of relocating the woodpeckers to the Francis Marion National Forest, but the process couldn’t happen overnight. I explained that they did have some options, but even if their birds were eligible for relocation by the Department of Natural Resources and the Fish and Wildlife Service, it could take several months to do so. The information caused the jaw muscles in Trent’s magnificent face to start working.

  “You’re gonna blow out a vein or something, you keep a doin’ that,” Granny told him. “Now at our house, we keep this oily machine running to keep everybody relaxed. Don’t work on the coons, though.”

  I dropped the envelope on top of the master plan, kissed Daddy goodbye just for show, collected Granny and Hunter, and left. Closing the door behind me, I heard Mister Protter’s confused voice.

  “Oily machine?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Boy, he sure is a looker, that man,” Granny said. “Just downright handsome.”

  We were walking along the aisles of the old City Market in the historic district and vendors hawked goods ranging from benne wafers and dried bean soups to handmade jewelry and artwork in their distinctly southern, laid-back way.

  I stopped to sample a praline-coated pecan and sighed. If Trent wasn’t so gorgeous, it would be easier to hate him.

  “That he is,” I agreed.

  “Polite,” Granny continued. “And he wears good shoes. A good man knows how to wear good shoes.”

  “Good shoes?”

  I hadn’t seen Trent in anything other than scuffed up work boots.

  “And that head of silver hair,” Granny said thoughtfully. “My fingers could get lost in that hair.”

  “Silver hair?” She was having a sweet moment of lucidity and I was the confused one.

  “Your granddaddy had hair like that.”

  It finally dawned on me that she was talking about Trent’s father.

  “The bad thing is, I probably won’t remember who he is next time I see him,” Granny said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But you know what? He’ll be just as handsome. And you’ll get to discover him all over again.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess there’re some advantages to gettin’ forgetful. Why, I can go and entertain myself for hours with a single picture album. By the time I’m back to the first page, I’ve forgotten that I already done saw those photographs!”

  “If something makes you angry, you don’t stay mad for very long,” I added.

  Granny laughed. “True. And I never complain about a TV show bein’ a rerun.”

  “I love you, Granny. You’re the best,” I told her.

  She gave my hand a squeeze. “And, speakin’ of hair, what in tarnation happened to mine?”

  “We went to Lori Anne’s spa and she gave you a color rinse.”

  Granny fluffed her hair. “How does it look?”

  “You look beautiful as a redhead,” I said.

  “Did she give me these striped fingernails, too?”

  I nodded. “They’re all the rage.”

  We were shopping for a thank you gift for Cheryl, who had proved to be a true friend. She’d handled all the details of putting my house on the market for sale and had been emailing me regular updates of both news and gossip. My boss at the firm was not at all happy that I’d quit without notice. I regretted that, but there was nothing else I could have done. Robert disappeared, but she wasn’t sure where he was living. His mail was being forwarded to a post office box, and although he was furious that his clothes were gone, he hadn’t raised any objections to the house being sold. I’d never changed the title to include his name after we married so he didn’t have any grounds to complain. Besides, since I was selling it so soon after buying it, I wasn’t going to make any money on the deal. I’d be lucky to get back all the money I’d used as a down payment.

  We came across a display of sweetgrass baskets and decided that Cheryl would love one. An art form originally brought to Charleston by slaves from West Africa some three hundred years ago, the skill had been passed down through the generations, from mothers to daughters. The grass grew wild in marshy habitats and once dried, gave off a vanilla-like fragrance. I chose a beautiful oval basket that would be perfect for the kitchen and Granny found a similar one that she bought for Mamma.

  “If I forget, remind me I got this basket for your mamma.”

  We decided to take a tour around the historic district and climbed into a roomy wooden replica of a classic carriage, pulled by two magnificent black percheron draft horses.

  Enjoying the day with Granny, I was re
minded why I loved my hometown. I loved the European-like atmosphere, the narrow streets, the people-filled sidewalks, the award-winning gardens tucked away at every turn and the multi-colored historic buildings with their blooming window boxes. And I loved that, in Charleston, people didn’t live by their watches and thought nothing of stopping at a street corner to chat.

  The sound of hooves clopping on the road was comforting and I let my body sway with the side-to-side movement of the carriage. Now that I was back, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. For that matter, I couldn’t believe I’d ever moved to New York. A Charlestonian doesn’t belong in a place where people honk their horns to vent frustration in traffic, or a place where it snows.

  “You know, his boy is right handsome, too,” Granny said from our perch atop the wooden bench seat. “You might should give some thought to courting him.”

  “Date Trent? You can’t be serious. You sound like Lori Anne.”

  “He’s from much better stock than that one you married. I can tell just by looking at his father.”

  “That may be, but you’re forgetting that Trent is the enemy,” I said, exasperated. “It’s his company that is building the development with the Handyman’s Depot! If my plan to stall them into submission doesn’t work, Stone Hardware and Home Supply will be shut down!”

  “Would you be angry if you saw an eagle swoop down and catch a baby rabbit?”

  “No,” I said, knowing where she was going. “I’d be sad for the bunny rabbit, but that’s just what eagles do. They hunt to survive.”

  Granny eyes were bright, and I imagined it was the same expression she used to have when teaching children. “Exactly.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I argued.

  “The heck it’s not. You can’t blame the Protters for doing what they do to keep their business alive. Same way you oughtn’t to blame the eagle for killin’ the rabbit.”

  “So, you don’t care if Daddy’s store is forced to close?”

  “Don’t tangle up my words! Of course I don’t want the store to shut down, ‘cause I know how much your daddy enjoys running it. All’s I’m saying is, you ought not to put down the Protters. What you should be puttin’ your mind to is going after that man before he gets away. Ones like him don’t come ‘round all that often.”

  “I despise Trent Protter. Besides, I’m not even close to being divorced from Robert yet. The law dictates a mandatory waiting period.”

  “Psshaw. That’ll work itself out.”

  We talked above love and valor and the virtues of a good man. Granny spoke of what Grandpa was like when they first met, but forgot what she was saying and suddenly declared she was hungry.

  Looking at the sweetgrass baskets we’d purchased reminded me of SNOB, because they served fresh bread to every table in a handmade sweetgrass basket. Since we were the only two in his carriage, the driver agreed to drop us there, and I tipped him well.

  “Did you just call that nice man a snob?” Granny said, after we’d climbed out.

  I laughed. “No, SNOB is a restaurant. Since you’re hungry, I thought it would be a great place to get something to eat.”

  Housed on the bottom floor of what was once a cotton gin warehouse, Slightly North of Broad was one of my favorite places to eat seafood in Charleston and I didn’t need a special occasion to go there. The name was also a dare to the more well-heeled Charlestonians who normally never crossed over to the north side of Broad Street. That was reason enough in my book to visit as often as possible.

  A jovial crowd greeted us, and we were seated at a table with a view of both the open kitchen and East Bay Street. Johnny Cash’s “Rowboat” flowed through the speakers, which meant that Chef Frank Lee was there. A native South Carolinian with classic French training and eclectic tastes, he was a huge Johnny Cash fan. Since he was also one of the owners, he could listen to whatever he wanted to.

  The server welcomed us to SNOB and took drink orders.

  “Did she just call you a snob?” Granny said. “Young’uns today don’t have the manners they should!”

  We shared an order of barbecued tuna topped with fried oysters and talked more about the virtues of a good man. I decided that, whatever Trent’s virtues were, his despicable occupation far outweighed them.

  Chapter Twenty

  The glamorous woman that returned my gaze from the full-length mirror was barely recognizable and I had to admit my sister was a fashion virtuoso. A few days earlier, we’d done some power shopping for clothes and shoes. And this morning, we’d decadently indulged ourselves at Lori Anne’s spa. We looked fabulous.

  My solid black sleeveless long gown demanded attention. Its neckline plunged to a point that would have looked tacky on a shorter dress, the silky fabric had a side slit that stretched to my upper thigh, and the design was completely backless from my waist up. My hair was pulled up into a twist on top of my head and piled into loose curls that barely touched my shoulders. Jenny finished my look with sheer black stockings, high heeled black satin pumps and a pair of outrageously large diamond stud earrings she’d loaned me for the night.

  She wore a clingy sequined floor-length gown the color of sparkling white sand. Between the two of us, some heads would definitely turn.

  We were going to a formal ball with Mamma and Daddy in the grand ballroom at the Mills House Wyndham. A fund-raiser for the Historic Charleston Foundation, there would be a meal of traditional low country cuisine, a silent auction and live music by the Frank Duvall Jazz Trio. Even if the wall discovery hadn’t slowed down the Protters much, I owed the foundation. Plus, I hadn’t been to a black tie event in years and was thoroughly enjoying playing dress-up with Jenny.

  When Daddy saw the two of us, he let out a slow whistle.

  “I will be the most envied man at the ball,” he declared, adjusting his bow tie. “I’m escorting not just one, but three beautiful women!”

  “Why, thank-you, Sweetheart,” Mamma said, giving him a kiss.

  She wore an elegant royal blue gown that fit her body snugly to the knees before flaring whimsically at the bottom. She was radiant.

  “I just hope people aren’t going to want autographs or come up and ask me about some silly product,” Jenny said, studying the tip of a freshly-painted crimson pinky fingernail. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “You’ve been in Atlanta too long,” Mamma told her. “Folks around here are too polite for that. They’ll respect your privacy.”

  “Why would folks want your autograph?” Granny asked bluntly.

  “Because a lot of people watch me on television,” Jenny explained.

  “Not me,” Granny said.

  “Not me!” Hunter said gleefully.

  Jenny tried to decide whether or not she should be insulted by the comments of an old woman and a toddler. I was going to help make up her mind by adding that I didn’t watch her show either, but was silenced by a look from Mamma.

  “The babysitter’s here,” the twins called, somehow detecting the doorbell that even Taffy had missed.

  “I hope she lets us stay up really late, if we promise not to tell,” Stacy said.

  “I hope she lets us eat huge bowls of strawberry ice cream!” Sherry said.

  “Ten o’clock is bedtime and you’d better both be under the covers by then,” Jenny said. “And don’t let Hunter use the Krazy Kids toothpaste tonight, you hear?”

  Jenny was testing bubblegum flavored toothpaste that had the consistency and sugar content of corn syrup. It was part of the Krazy Kids Clean Case, a new item designed to encourage good hygiene in children. Unfortunately, the fluoride content could become toxic in large amounts if children liked it so much that they were eating it. In Home Now’s health advisor advised producers not to carry it unless the manufacturer eliminated the sugar content to make it less tasty.

  “Well, it does taste pretty good, Mama,” Sherry said.

  “I bet it would be good with peanut butter,” Stacy said.

  “You mean t
hat tube of candy you keep hidin’ in the bathroom?” Granny asked. “I’ve a right mind to try it on top of some ice cream.”

  “Good grief,” Jenny said, sounding exactly like Mamma when she got exasperated. “Everyone knows you’re supposed to spit toothpaste out -- not eat it!”

  Daddy led the babysitter into the house and after thoroughly briefing her about bedtimes and emergency phone numbers and the growling poodle and Granny’s penchant for blurting odd commentary, we piled into Mamma’s Cadillac leaving behind an aromatic trail of perfume, cologne and hair spray.

  At Jenny’s insistence, we arrived after the appointed cocktail hour begun and the ballroom was pleasantly filled with beautiful people engaged in animated conversations. Mamma and Daddy melted gracefully into the crowd and observing them from the sidelines, I couldn’t imagine any two people belonging together more than they did.

  Because Jenny and I had grown up in Charleston, a lot of people at the fund-raiser watched In Home Now and my sister was a local celebrity. As we moved about the room, handshakes and hugs greeted us, but nobody whipped out a pen and asked Jenny for her autograph.

  “Daddy told them when he bought our tickets that he didn’t want anyone pestering you,” I lied to console her.

  “I should have known,” she said. “Stephen always runs interference for me, too.”

  “Jenny Stone!” a woman finally said with unconcealed enthusiasm. “I heard you were in town! You look absolutely stunning. Does that firming cream made from foreskin really work as well as everyone claims?”

  My sister breathed a sigh of contentment and the two of them disappeared to discuss the wonders of technology in cosmetics.

  “Who would want to rub foreskin on their face?” I mumbled to myself, snatching a flute of champagne from a passing tray. “How disgusting.”

  “The champagne?” a voice behind me asked with amusement.

  My heart did a tap dance inside my chest. The voice belonged to Trent.