by Mary Clay
His beer arrived, and he took a drink. “Got a few days off and hated to schlep through snow so early in the season. I come here a lot, so figured this was the perfect time for a visit.”
Ruthie appeared with a waiter in tow. “Our table’s ready,” she said.
Relieved, I took my wine and stood. “It’s been nice talking with you. I hope you have a good visit,” I said. As Ruthie and I threaded our way to the table, it hit me. Al was the guy next door, the one the police had interviewed that morning!
Our table was at the back of the deck, several stations away from Penny Sue and Lyndon, who seemed to be hitting it off fabulously. Every time I glanced that way, Penny Sue’s hands were waving theatrically. I always said she couldn’t talk if her hands were tied behind her back. We actually tried it once in college. She only managed two sentences before stopping cold. I thought she’d bust from frustration before we got her hands untied, and it was something I teased her about when she got particularly excited.
We’d finished dinner and our pie had just arrived when Penny Sue brought Lyndon over to the table. He was terrific looking up close. Lyndon had a perfect body, perfect teeth, perfect clothes, and the polished, understated assurance of the super wealthy. Penny Sue was in hog heaven. She introduced us; we made polite small talk; then he excused himself to place an overseas phone call.
Penny Sue ogled his back as he walked down the pier to his yacht. When he disappeared inside, she reached over and snatched my drink. “Mmmm-hmm, that is one fine specimen of manhood.” She finished off the last few sips of the wine and grabbed Ruthie’s, downing it as well.
“How much have you had to drink?” I asked.
She tossed her head. “You can drive.”
“Did you ever eat dinner?” Ruthie questioned.
“I’ll make a sandwich when we get home.” Penny Sue snatched the spoon from Ruthie’s coffee cup and helped herself to my coconut cream pie. I pushed the plate in front of her, obviously she needed it more than I did.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Penny Sue said, mouth full of whipped cream.
Talking with her mouth full! That was completely out of character. Penny Sue must really be smashed. “What’s the story on Lyndon?”
Pie demolished, she licked her finger and sat back. “He’s in town to check on an investment. Condos or something. Will be here for at least a few days, maybe a week. He’s coming to the party.”
“And ...” Ruthie prodded.
“Charlotte’s going to come over to clean and help with the party.”
Ruthie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Come on, Penny Sue, you know what I mean. Is he married? What does he do for a living? Are you going to see him before Saturday?”
Penny Sue flashed a goofy grin. “Divorced, don’t know, lunch tomorrow.”
“Did you tell him y’all were destined to marry?” I asked.
She tittered. “I’m saving that tidbit for another time. But, we’re definitely in sync. Lyndon said he felt like he’d known me all his life.”
“How much had he had to drink?” I gibed.
Penny Sue folded her arms and pursed her lips peevishly. “You’re just jealous.”
“I’m kidding. Though, it’s an amazing turn of events. I get inducted into the DAFFODILS, and the president resigns a few days later.”
“Who said anything about me resigning?”
“Well, if you get married ...”
“That doesn’t make any difference. I’m still divorced and free of licentious scum.” She chopped the air with her hand and knocked over the wine glass. Fortunately, it was empty. “DAFFODILS are allowed to remarry, as long as it’s Prince Charming. Royalty’s a whole ‘nother matter.”
Ruthie and I each took one of Penny Sue’s arms. “I’m glad you clarified that, Cinderella. It’s almost midnight, we need to get you home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin—” She followed us out without protest. “—wouldn’t a pumpkin pie taste good?” I unlocked the car and helped her into the passenger side. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. “Stop at Food Lion and get a pie, Leigh.”
I guided the car out of the parking lot. I wasn’t about to stop anywhere; a bed was what she needed.
Ruthie came to my aid. “I know, how about cream cheese and pepper jelly on toast?”
“Mmmm,” Penny Sue mumbled. “With onion.”
* * *
Chapter 7
“Do you think a guy should wear a dress to a school dance?”
I looked up from the cinnamon and raisin bagel I was smearing with cream cheese. Ruthie sat at the counter reading the newspaper. “Sure, as long as he doesn’t look better than his date. That basketball player with the funny hair wears dresses. He even wears wed—” I stopped myself. I was about to say wedding dresses, Ruthie’s favorite attire (complete with veil) to Kappa Alpha’s Old South gala when we were in college. That subject was best left untouched, no sense starting the day on the wrong foot. I raised on tiptoes and peered at the newsprint. “What are you reading?”
Ruthie held up the paper so I could see the headline: Local High School Bars Teen In Drag.
I took a bite of my bagel. “What’s the problem?”
“The principal won’t let a gay boy go to the homecoming dance wearing a dress. The kid’s broken-hearted, worked overtime for months to buy a red ball gown with matching shoes.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“A bunch of parents are upset.” She scanned the article. “They say: No one should be allowed to make himself the center of attention by deliberately making a spectacle of himself.”
I hooted. “As if that’s not what every female is trying to do! Who are they kidding? Sounds like some mothers are afraid the guy will upstage their daughters.”
“He probably would,” Ruthie said. “I went to a bar in San Francisco that featured a stage show of female impersonators. I couldn’t believe the performers were actually men. They looked fabulous, better than I do.”
“Me, too.” One of the talk shows did a segment on cross-dressing. On my best day I don’t look that glamorous. “I can’t believe it’s legal.”
“Everything’s legal in San Francisco.”
“No, I mean barring the teen from the dance. Isn’t that discrimination?”
“I’d think so.”
I took a bite of the bagel. It wasn’t the best I’d ever had; in fact, it was bland, very bland. I thought of the Jalapeño jelly. Why not? I pulled off a piece of bagel and slathered on the hot concoction. It was surprisingly good.
“Listen to this,” Ruthie said. “Moving turtle nests can cause the eggs not to hatch or change the sex of hatchlings.”
“Change the sex of hatchlings? How does that work?” I asked.
Ruthie scanned the article. “Doesn’t say. But the number of nests is up, while hatchlings are lower. No one knows why. Vandalism has increased from here to South Florida.”
I spread hot jelly on the other half of my bagel. “What kind of person would vandalize turtle nests?”
“The eggs are considered a delicacy and aphrodisiac. Bars in the Cayman Islands sell them in shot glasses with Tabasco. It says here that turtle eggs sell for as much as five dollars apiece.”
“Ouch, that’s steep.”
“The price is nothing. It’s a misdemeanor to possess the eggs of loggerhead turtles and a felony to destroy them. A guy in West Palm Beach was sentenced to five years for possessing the eggs.”
“West Palm? Those rich people will try anything.”
“Yeah.” Ruthie took a sip of her coffee and gazed at me over the rim of the cup. “By the way, I know what you were thinking earlier.”
Earlier? I blinked, baffled.
“There was nothing wrong with my wearing a wedding gown to Old South. It was a masquerade ball.”
Oh, that earlier. I gulped down guilt. Fortunately Ruthie let the subject drop and went back to reading the paper. I nibbled
my bagel, waiting for her next pearl of wisdom. A consummate news junky, if Ruthie wasn’t reading something—even a cereal box—she was listening to talk radio or watching television newscasts. And, she delighted in sharing the knowledge so we would be informed. Where was she when Zack was running around on me? I wish she’d informed me about that.
“There were a record number of manatees at Blue Springs last year,” Ruthie said a few minutes later. “Blue Springs isn’t far, just past Cassadaga. We should go over there, don’t you think? I’d like to see the manatees.”
The mention of Cassadaga reminded me of our psychic readings and I realized Ruthie hadn’t said anything about her call home. “I meant to ask, is everything all right in Atlanta?”
“Fine. Mr. Wong has things firmly in hand, including the housekeeper next door.”
Mr. Wong had been in the Edwards’ employ for as long as I could remember and had to be close to eighty himself. “Mr. Wong is having an affair?”
“I think so. He’s always had an eye for the ladies, but he seems especially partial to Hilda, who works for our neighbor. Of course, it may simply be that Hilda’s close. Mr. Wong doesn’t get around as well as he used to. Poppa offered to buy him one of those motorized scooters, but he’d have nothing to do with it. Said he’d accept one when he stopped catching twenty-year-olds.” She chuckled. “Big talker.”
“They’re all like that. It’s testosterone.” I thought of little Zack and his buddies. As mere toddlers boys swaggered around, bragging. Not to mention hitting each other over the head with their toys, running into walls, chasing dogs, and generally creating chaos. It was then that I realized there truly was a hormonal component to behavior. Little girls played quietly with dolls and tea sets. Boys? Get out of the way. “Did you talk to your father?”
“Poppa didn’t have much to say. Poor thing, he’s starting to get confused. He thought I was Jo Ruth, kept asking me how school was going.”
I let out a long sigh. My parents were still in good health, though I knew my time was coming. “That’s tough.”
She looked sad, and I thought I saw her lip quiver. “He’s in no pain, and actually pretty happy. I guess it’s true that ignorance is bliss. It could be worse—”
“Nothing could be worse than this headache.” Penny Sue rounded the corner holding her head, face contorted in an agonized grimace. “Ibuprofen, please,” she whimpered pitifully. I found the bottle in her purse and handed her a glass of water. She swallowed four pills and shuffled to the sofa. I put a damp paper towel over her forehead. “I’m never drinking again,” she said, holding the paper towel in place with both hands. “If I ever so much as mention wine, shoot me.”
I grinned to myself. Ten bucks said she’d be having a glass by evening. Yet, I did feel sorry for her. Penny Sue liked her wine, but normally didn’t overdo. If only she’d eaten something, she probably wouldn’t feel so bad. “How about some toast or a bagel? You need to get something in your stomach.”
“Oooo, I can still taste that coconut cream pie.”
Good, she remembered the pie. There was hope.
She wiped her face with the paper towel and handed it to me. I understood the unspoken plea. I rinsed the compress in cold water.
“Wait,” Ruthie stopped me before I could take it back. She ran to our bedroom and returned with a small dropper bottle. Ruthie squirted the liquid on the compress.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A flower remedy.” Ruthie turned the bottle so I could see the name: Rescue Remedy. “It’s good for grave situations: heart attack, stage fright, accidents—”
“Massive hangovers. Put on an extra dose.” I eyed the small container, then glanced at Penny Sue. “Does it come in a larger size?”
“Like what, a gallon jug?” Ruthie chuckled.
I placed the compress back on Penny Sue’s forehead. She smiled appreciatively.
“What time is it? I’m supposed to have lunch with Lyndon at noon.”
“Eight-thirty,” I said. Penny Sue groaned.
The phone rang and Ruthie leaped to get it. “Penny Sue, it’s Woody. He’s returning your call.”
She struggled to a sitting position. “Oh crap, I think I’m going to throw up.”
In fact, Penny Sue did not puke and actually managed to talk to Woody, although the call was remarkably brief. “Jerk,” Penny Sue declared as she hung up the phone. “He told us to get the license number if we see the pickup again. Leigh, I think I will have some toast.” She sat next to Ruthie at the bar.
“Did he say anything about the investigation?” Ruthie asked. “What about the test results for the gun?”
Penny Sue crossed her arms on the counter and lay her head down. “He didn’t say. He’s trying to torment me.”
I slid the plate of toast in front of her. Woody wasn’t the only one; Penny Sue was doing a good job of torturing herself.
The phone rang again at nine.
“Mars is conjuncting Mercury,” Ruthie said, as if that pearl explained some deep, dark secret about Alexander Graham Bell’s jingling invention.
It told me zip, zilch, nada. I answered the telephone, it was my realtor. Our house had made the cute young couple’s short list. I got a strangely sick feeling at the news. I should be happy, right? Sell the house, get rid of Zack and all those rotten memories ... except, damn it, there was a whole raft of good memories there.
Who were these people? Did they deserve such a house with so many wonderful features? Could they take care of my crepe myrtle? Would they recognize that the evergreens in the backyard were our Christmas trees from years-gone-by? Twenty-two, one for every year we’d been in the house. Did they know you had to prune roses and dust them for aphids and fungus? Would they smile at Ann and Zack, Jr.’s handprints in the cement on the patio?
The handprints! There was no way I was leaving those precious little fingers behind. I’d hire someone to remove that part of the concrete. Cement was cement, right? Cut it out and fill the hole. Though, it would probably look tacky. I could put in a decorative tile. Or, a carved flagstone with a sweet saying; I’d seen them at the garden shop. Something inspiring like: Bless this Home, Seize the Day, Eat Shit and Die. What difference did it make? Strangers weren’t getting my babies’ handprints.
“—throw in the refrigerator and drapes?” My realtor was saying.
That snot-nosed couple sure was greedy. They wanted everything. Well, they couldn’t have it.
The realtor continued, “I’ve already talked to your husband. He has no problem with it.”
My husband. My voice turned to ice. “Ex-husband. I’ll include the refrigerator and drapes on the first floor, nothing more.” Feeling furious, I hung up the receiver and turned on Ruthie. “What’s this stuff about Mars and Mercury?”
* * *
“Penny Sue must have a liver the size of Texas,” I commented under my breath.
Ruthie and I watched through the screen door as she got into the cab. Though we assured her we were not leaving the premises, she insisted on taking a taxi so we’d have use of her car. Penny Sue paused before shutting the door and wiggled her fingers in our direction. “Toodles.”
“Toodles?” I echoed, rolling my eyes.
Ruthie waved as the Silver Bullet cab pulled out of the parking lot. “I think that’s her aristocratic persona. Warming up for Lyndon.”
I closed and locked the front door. “She never ceases to amaze me. This morning I would have bet money that she’d have to cancel her date. Then, a few pills, a little toast, and she’s ready to boogie. What’s her secret?” We picked up our beach bags and chairs, and headed out the back door.
“The secret is M-A-N,” Ruthie explained. “She’s a hopeless romantic. Penny Sue isn’t kidding when she talks about finding Prince Charming; she’s really looking for him. Her only problem is she thinks everyone she meets fits the bill. I can’t tell you have many times I’ve heard her say that she’s finally found her soul mate.” We planted our chai
rs at the edge of the surf and sat down. Ruthie chuckled. “Best I can figure, Penny Sue was a man with a harem in a previous life.”
“Do you believe in that?”
“Penny Sue with a harem? It fits.”
“No, soul mates. Do you think there’s a perfect partner for everyone?” Was there a perfect mate for me somewhere? At one time I thought it was Zack, but that had proven to be a gross mistake.
Ruthie pulled her T-shirt over her head. She was wearing a floral two piece which showed off her slim, pale body. Her stomach was perfectly flat. I folded my arms over my paunch self-consciously.
“Yes and no,” she replied, smearing on suntan lotion. “I think there is such a thing as soul mates, although I don’t believe everyone has one in each lifetime.”
I dug into my beach bag for my own sun block. “Why is that?”
“I think each of us is born with an agenda. You know, something we need to accomplish or learn. For some the goal requires a helpmate—it’s sort of a joint purpose. Others can do their thing alone. It doesn’t mean those people won’t have relationships, just that they don’t need a partner to fulfill their destiny.”
Destiny. I didn’t have a clue what mine was. I looked out across the ocean, a vast expanse of ... what? Calm on the surface, movement underneath—a dolphin arched over the water—and life. Perhaps it was time for me to do something different. But what? And, how did one go about finding their purpose? “Do you know what your life purpose is?”
Ruthie sank back, eyes closed, and grinned. “Not sure. Perhaps I’ll move to Cassadaga and become a medium.”
I tilted my face to the sun. Boy, wouldn’t that be something.
We dozed peacefully in the warm sun until the ocean got pissed. Or, so it seemed. One minute soaring euphorically on gentle breezes; the next, swallowed by a teeth-chattering swell. Clawing for life. Gasping for breath. Okay, clawing for life might be a slight exaggeration, but we did gasp for air. The water was cold, absolutely frigid! We blasted out of the chairs like we were jet propelled and dragged our stuff toward the dunes. A small group of mostly senior citizens were already there. They were placing a wreath on the turtle mound where I’d stumbled over Rick’s body.
