“Yes. Yes we do! Great idea! In fact we just got them—they’re fake rocks and they’re wireless.”
“Good call. We don’t want anyone getting electrocuted. That would ruin the whole day.” I was completely deadpan, entertaining the vision, knowing there wasn’t enough current in little speakers to cause a catastrophe.
“Right! God, you’re so bad.” Rusty giggled. “And then I was thinking about getting banners made, you know ‘Congratulations, Graduates!’ Or something like that. Or a bubble machine? Or a Sno-Kone machine? What do you think?”
I giggled then, too. Rusty was going to break the bank and Trip would have a full-blown conniption fit and die gasping for air.
“Um, I think somebody’s spending too much time on the Internet? This isn’t a wedding, girl!”
Rusty laughed and agreed with me.
“You’re right, you’re right. Gosh, can you imagine if I had my own children how spoiled rotten they’d be?”
“They’d be rotten from head to toe. Now tell me: What I can do?”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe Matthew knows some young policemen who could work as lifeguards?”
“I’m sure he does. I’ll call him right away.”
We hung up and I stared at the phone for a few minutes. Rusty had to be one of the most considerate and generous people I had ever known. She was using her time to plan every conceivable detail of this very nice party for Trip’s daughter who would just as soon spit in her eye as say thank you. All she wanted to do was make Belle know that she and Trip cared about her graduation day and that they wanted it to be as happy and memorable as possible. Just as I was musing away on the positive qualities of Rusty, there came across my internal monitor a mental image of Frances Mae. I could see her just gnashing her teeth and wallowing in misery over missing her daughter’s graduation. But truth be told, it was better to miss it from the confines of a rehab center in sunny California, where she could do yoga and meditate, than from some dismal jail cell where she had to wear an orange jumpsuit that flattered no body part. If Frances Mae had not gone away to Promises, she would surely be a guest of the state by now. Poor thing.
I called Matthew.
“Darlin’ man? You busy tonight?”
“Why, no, ma’am. What’s going on?”
“Well, I was thinking about making a fabulous dinner for you around seven?”
“Just us?”
“Why not?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Hunger.”
“Hunger? Hmm. What are you hungry for?”
“Oh, Matthew. You know me. I’m hungry for everything.”
“I’ll see you at seven.”
I was in an Italian mood. Everyone loved Italian food, Italian wine, Andrea Bocelli, and those three young tenors. Didn’t they? It wasn’t quite eleven. I still had ample room on the clock to make a round-trip to Charleston and be home in plenty of time to put together something that would thrill him.
I picked up seven pieces of veal shank at the New York Butcher in Mount Pleasant to make osso buco, figuring Millie and I could eat the leftovers the next day. Tomorrow the meat would be married to all the flavors and absolutely mouthwateringly delicious. As usual, I got into a conversation with Bill the owner, who was the coolest guy around.
“You making brown gravy with this?” he said.
“You know it. I like to use the gravy on risotto.”
“Me, too. You having a party?”
“Nah, just cooking for a friend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, actually, a man friend.”
“Aha! I knew it! Nobody comes all the way here from Timbuktu to cook for an old aunt or something. Am I right?”
“Oh, Bill! Yeah, he’s . . . well, he’s . . .”
“Got it.” He raised one eyebrow and gave me a smile. In general, Bill was a serious fellow, but when it came to matters of the heart, he softened. “I’m gonna give you a quarter pound of pancetta, too. Dice it and sauté it with the meat to give it a trace of smoke.”
“Sounds great,” I said, and actually blushed, something I rarely do.
He handed me the package. “My mother always said, love makes the world go ’round.”
“Mothers always say things like that, don’t they?”
“Yeah, and she was right, okay? My mother was always right.”
“Mine, too,” I said to be agreeable, knowing that my mother did so many things wrong it was just ridiculous.
As my heels crunched along the gravel in his parking lot, I suddenly remembered making veal chops for Richard years ago when I was young and in the business of serious seduction. It was that butcher at Zabar’s in New York, Abe was his name, I think, who made me realize that I could bring a man to his knees with the right cut of meat. For a while I drifted from broiling everything to concocting pastas and stews. But ever since Bobby Mack had come into my life, I became a roasting and braising fool. Low and slow was how you turned meat into butter. There was something very satisfying about cooking a meal for someone, especially if it was good, and if they appreciated the effort. Matthew always did.
I stopped at Whole Foods for cheeses, olives, and a fresh baguette, and in a moment of weakness I picked up a quarter of a seedless watermelon to cube and serve over vanilla sorbet with champagne. Watermelon was just about my favorite fruit in the world—besides strawberries, of course. I hoped Matthew would think that champagne in his dessert was a little exotic. Even though my relationship with Matthew didn’t quite qualify as a serious love affair, somewhere between the butcher shop and passing Rantowle Creek, I decided it wasn’t nice to just treat him like a friend with benefits. Mother might not have minded if we fooled around, but I didn’t think she’d be quite so sanguine if I wanted to marry him. If I intended to continue on with him, it would seem that I should give the long-term possibilities a real shake. It was a good thing my mother was dead. Well, she was dead but only technically. Still, there was only so much she could do to interfere. I hoped.
When I got home I dropped all the groceries in the kitchen, grabbed my clippers, filled a bucket halfway up its sides with warm water, and went out with the intention of cutting roses to make a huge bouquet for the living room and to fill the vases on the dining-room table.
Even though the afternoon sun had traveled across much of the sky, steam was still rising from the lawn. Heat owned the Lowcountry from May until well into October. It was almost like watching a time-lapse photography documentary on something like the evolution of the earth because every day you could count on something new emerging, being born and reborn. By small degrees, the temperature would rise each day. Leaves reappeared on shrubs and trees, quietly unfurling to show their pale green bottoms and shiny green leather tops. Flowers bloomed each week, tiny buds at first then growing in profusion and enough sweet fragrance to drive you mad. By May, the Lowcountry was more alive than ever, dressing herself for the annual parade of admirers who would arrive from Ohio and Pennsylvania to take pictures and say oh how magical it all was just to be here, even if only for a few days. Of course, while all these lovely tourists filled the coffers of various businesses around Charleston various species of bugs multiplied by the millions after each rainfall, eating everyone to pieces as the months rolled forward.
You see, this was the most addictive thing about living in the Lowcountry. It made me aware—aware of nature’s doings and aware of the passing of time. The geography and all of its trappings were as alive as I could imagine the world to be. I liked the fact that the sun warmed me through and through and I didn’t even mind the beads of perspiration that cropped up across my upper lip and the back of my neck. It meant I was alive, too.
I worked my way through Mother’s rose garden, thinking of her while I clipped flowers for the house and deadheaded the spent blooms. After all, these roses were a part of her legacy, as they would be of mine someday. What would she have said about the state of her garden? She might have been pleased to s
ee it thriving. She would have been thrilled to know that a photographer from Southern Living magazine was coming out in a few weeks to take pictures of the roses. But what would she say about our family? Probably plenty. She would have been relieved to know that Frances Mae was safely on the other side of the country but she would not have liked the way her granddaughters were behaving. That much was certain. I thought then that she would have told me I was doing the right thing to be stern with them. She would have said in her royal voice that children needed discipline and to set goals to achieve their own levels of personal excellence. And while she whispered all that from the Great Beyond, there were gusty winds and dark clouds gathering in my mental harbor. I was remembering how, when our father died, she deposited Trip and me into boarding schools so fast it made heads spin. Millie had objected strongly then, but Mother wanted us out of the way. It was so awful.
Our structure had been bought and paid for, not provided in a loving way from a loving mother. Old anger resurfaced immediately, but it was quickly eclipsed by the longing I felt to be with her once more. Even five minutes with her would have brought me unimaginable joy. It was a terrible day, a mighty and terrible heart-wrenching sorrow, when a child buried her mother. Yes, it was. And the pain of it never left you. You just somehow limped along through life having become used to a terrible emotional disability. I sighed so hard then, I was sure the branches swayed.
I wondered then if she ached to be with me from wherever her spirit had flown. Now and then she would send me a sign that she had not evaporated, but where was she the rest of the time? Did she somehow watch me as I went about my daily life? For all our differences, it was her eyes in her final days that swallowed me whole as though she couldn’t get enough of my face to take away to eternity. No one ever adored me as my mother had at that time. I thought then that perhaps one reason she had sent Trip and me away to school was that she was afraid, maybe even terrified, of her capacity to love us and the risk it carried. So she just simply held back? That wasn’t right. But maybe the reason she was so cold to us was that the enormous feelings she had for our father had nearly crushed her when she lost him. Maybe her mourning was too much for her to bear, and if she had some distance from us she might have been more easily healed and then buoyed again with enough loft to eventually reel us back into her orbit. At least it had played out in that order, but I would never fully know the truth. It seemed then that, like every other sorry human being whose heart had been ripped open by loss, I would rewrite that story until I found a truth I could accept as plausible, one that made me feel all right about my mother and about myself. She was my mother, after all.
I began to envision her working alongside me as we used to do so often before she so quickly and unfairly declined. For some crazy reason I told myself that if I concentrated hard enough I could bring her back to life and place her right there with me in the garden. So I thought of her in her big hats and gloves leaning through the bushes, pinching back buds and chatting away, until I could almost feel her breath moving the flowers.
I felt an urgency to tell her everything I was holding back. I’m lonely, Mother. What would she have said about me sleeping with Matthew? He’s so nice to me. I knew once again she would have said to go and have my fun for now, but that he was not an appropriate choice for a spouse. Real or imagined, I found that opinion to be unacceptable. Who was she to say what was appropriate and what was not? Had she not slept with the UPS man and then Raoul, her gardener? Who knew what other men had made their way to her sheets? Probably scores of them. Well, it did me no good whatsoever to waste much time pondering Mother’s escapades because it didn’t matter anymore, and besides, Matthew had not presented himself as anything but a dear and caring friend.
Ah, Matthew. Every woman should have a man in her life like my Matthew. He was masculine but sensitive enough, confident but not too arrogant, handsome not pretty like a momma’s boy, and very easy to be with. We had many things in common, most of all a shared passion for the Lowcountry. Above all, Matthew had integrity and compassion, two qualities in short supply among men and women these days. He certainly could have thrown Frances Mae in the pokey on many occasions, but his compassion for the family overruled the law of the land. And Matthew’s main rationalization for not locking her up was that he didn’t really believe the state could solve her personal problems. It was up to the family to keep her off the road and to get her into treatment. We had done that and he was satisfied. Besides, in our neck of the woods, the population of our internment center was composed of those who manufactured pharmaceutical products for self-medication and recreational purposes—read: meth-lab junkies who settled their differences with guns and knives. Even Frances Mae had no business in a jail like that.
I started getting excited about spending the evening with him, and who knew what the end of the evening might bring? Was it a Lavinia caftan night? Ooh la la! Yes! Wait! No! God help me, I was so stupid sometimes! Had Matthew not seen me in a caftan, one that was inside out, on that unfortunate night when Bobby Mack almost went to the light? Um, yeah. Jesus, I thought, get it together, Caroline. Nonetheless, I would wear something provocative. I gathered up my pail of roses and went back to the house, leaving the ghost of Lavinia tangled in the thorns, right where she belonged, with those highfalutin Lady Astor opinions of hers. Indeed.
While the osso buco simmered, I showered and dressed, spraying perfume in all the important nooks and crannies. After I pulled ten different outfits from my closet, I finally decided to let shoes rule the night and took out my crazy Pucci wedges that were a pink-and-purple paisley silk. Nothing in the universe matched them, so I decided on white tissue crepe pajama pants with a coordinating big shirt of the same fabric. And, of course, Mother’s South Sea pearls. Given my mileage? I was pleased with my appearance.
The whole house smelled delicious from the pungent fragrances of sautéed rosemary and pancetta combined with the wafting steam of wine and chicken stock. I basted the meat every ten minutes or so and in between I minced shallots for the risotto and set the table with Mother’s favorite china—the Victoria pattern from Herend. The roses I had cut filled two gleaming Chinese export silver vases on the dining-room table. I filled another tall vase that was so old it had probably belonged to Robert E. Lee’s godmother’s aunt. Well, Robert E. Lee’s mother’s contemporary, okay? It was loaded with blooms and stood on an end table in the living room. Needless to say, the veritable mountain of assembled roses smelled like you might think heaven would.
As I flitted around the house attending to all the details that come with making dinner for a guest, my mind hopscotched over such earth-shattering topics as whether or not it was gauche to put paper hand towels in the guest powder room and what cooks did before the advent of paper towels or canned chicken broth. I mean, I could make stock with the best of them, but to be honest, I thought some brands were as good if not better than anything that ever came out of my pots. I had used nearly two quarts with the meat and I would use another one with the risotto. I figured at least six chickens met their demise so Matthew and I could enjoy moist veal and plump kernels of Italian rice. Well, chickens are stupid anyway, but I tried not to think about the poor little cow. All kidding aside, the rumors of how they were slaughtered were deeply disturbing. Much worse than pigs, according to Bobby Mack. Maybe someday I would give up meat altogether. But not now. No, no. Not that night. Was I getting nervous?
It was six-thirty and Matthew would be arriving soon. I filled the ice bucket, checked the white wine to be sure it was chilled to the right temperature, and pressed the remote control to get the music going. The stage was set for a beautiful evening. I stopped in front of the hall mirror and gave myself one last honest critique. I looked positively virginal. Okay, maybe not. But I could still pass for thirty-five. Okay, thirty-seven.
“Oh, just forget it!” I said out loud to no one. “I look good for my age and that’s what matters.”
Minutes later the doorbell ra
ng and there stood Matthew, leaning on the threshold looking less like an officer of the law than ever, holding a bottle of good red wine. He was wearing a black textured linen shirt and his khaki gabardine trousers hung from his hips the whole way down to his (mock?) alligator loafers just as they should. The man smelled divine, as tempting as a Hollywood tabloid packed with scandalous sin of the carnal variety. He was as fine a specimen as ever that walked up to my front door. Ever. I was a little weak.
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said.
“I know,” I said, and giggled. “So do you.”
Eventually, after a glass of wine and enough sexual innuendo in the hold to sink the QE2, we finally sat down in the dining room. Dinner was delicious and passed at a slow and leisurely pace because what was the rush?
“I need to ask you for a small favor, Matthew,” I said.
“Anything,” he replied.
I told him about the pool party and our concern for the kids’ safety. He started to laugh.
“Are you asking me if the young guys on the force want to come over here and supervise a bunch of eighteen-year-old girls in bikinis? Are you kidding? How much do they have to pay you?”
We had a good laugh at that and I was assured it would be no problem at all.
“And I had some shocking news this week.”
“You wouldn’t be a Wimbley if you didn’t. Tell me.”
“My son has a new girlfriend.”
“You don’t look very happy about that.”
“She’s twenty-seven and has a two-year-old baby. Her name is Erica.”
“Eric and Erica? You’re kidding, right?”
“I only wish.”
“It won’t last.”
“Your mouth, God’s ears. I mean, I’m not naive, you know. I know he’s at the age to be sexually active and all that. But she’s too old! What does a girl her age want with a young boy like Eric?”
“Well, let’s think about this for a minute. Maybe she’s lonely?”
Lowcountry Summer Page 16
