Gone With a Handsomer Man (3 page)

“Can’t I spend the night with you?” I crossed my arms and gave the house a spiteful look. “I won’t make a peep.”

“You know how much I love having you around. But my house is in turmoil. I’m redecorating and painters have taken the beds apart. There’s no place for you to sleep.”

“The floor’s fine,” I said.

“Just stay here tonight. First thing tomorrow, I’ll have Estaurado bring your car.”

“Who?”

“My new manservant. I hired him a few weeks ago. He’s an illegal, but don’t tell.” She pointed toward the intersection of East Bay and Adgers. “The house comes with off-street parking. There’s a lot just around the corner.”

She sounded like a high-pressure saleswoman, forcing me to take a giant pink dress on approval, only this dress wasn’t my style. And it was way out of my price range.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should go to a hotel. I’ll find an apartment in the morning.”

“Well, that’s an option.” She twirled the key. “But how will you afford it? You’ll get stuck with umpteen deposits. Phone, utilities, cable TV. And you’re unemployed, aren’t you?”

I nodded. After Bing and I had gotten engaged, I quit my job at the Food Lion bakery. He didn’t want me cooking for other people.

“The Charleston job market isn’t booming, darlin’,” she said. “And remember, you’re in trouble with the law. You’ll have to check that little box on your job application, the one that asks about criminal history. If you check ‘no,’ it’s a felony. Anyway, I doubt you’ll get a job. Don’t get me wrong—you’re a talented cook. Nobody can beat you making key lime pie. But you don’t have formal training. Charleston used to have a chef school, you know. The town is filled with degreed chefs.”

“I’ve got a savings account,” I said. But I only had a few thousand dollars; I’d been putting back money for a Jamaica honeymoon, hoping to surprise Bing, but tra la la, he’d surprised me.

“Look, you’re tired,” Miss Dora said. “Let’s call it a night. Bing’s nursing his wounds. He won’t know you’re here. Just go inside and fix yourself a cup of tea. Elmer’s only been dead a few weeks. The kitchen is stocked with basics—you might have to buy milk and eggs. But other than that, you’re set.”

A cup of tea did sound nice. But everything else felt wrong. She reached around me and opened my door. “If Bing lets you stay—and I’ll talk to him—you won’t have to dip into your savings. If the roof leaks, just call a repairman and send the bill to Quentin Underhill. He’s a lawyer, but he takes care of the Spencer-Jackson.”

She pushed the pink tassel into my hand. “The alarm code is Bing’s birth date.”

“What if I break something?” I looked up at the house. It was so pink, it made my head hurt. It was real pain, like when ice cold strawberry sorbet hits the roof of your mouth.

“Teeny, the only thing you’re breaking is my heart,” Miss Dora said. “Listen, if you need me, I’m only a few blocks away. The house looks imposing, but it’s down-to-earth. Really. Think of it as a beautiful lady who’s had a difficult life. Once, she was a gorgeous debutante. But she fell into ruin, maybe prostitution, and people deserted her. Now, look—she’s Botoxed, lifted, tucked, and filled with collagen. Why, she’s a symbol for us all. Isn’t she?”

I couldn’t argue with that. As I climbed out of the car, a ship’s horn blew and I stumbled backward. Miss Dora leaned across the seat. “Think of it as an opportunity. Why, people would give their eyeteeth to live south of Broad. Now, dry your tears, darlin’. Go forth and carpe diem a little.”

five

The stench of gasoline and brackish water blew around me as I watched Miss Dora’s taillights move toward the Battery. I hated to see her go. If I’d had cash or credit cards, I would have walked to a hotel. But I couldn’t loiter on the sidewalk because those joggers were coming back, and a police car was right behind them.

I unlocked the iron gate and stepped into the narrow brick corridor. Three gas lanterns flickered against the wall, shadows pooling between them. The wind shifted, carrying delicate fragrances: lemon balm, camellias, sweet almond, and fresh cut grass. The joggers ran by the gate, and I flattened myself against the wall. The police car inched down the street. Then it passed.

My footsteps clapped over the bricks as I passed by long shuttered windows and potted ferns. Most houses on Rainbow Row had two front doors—one at the street, which was meant to keep out the riffraff, and one inside the breezeway. A gray door was on my left, framed by two concrete cherubs. I unlocked it and went inside.

Shrill beeps rose up. If I didn’t locate the alarm box and punch in the code, the police would come back. I groped for the light switch, found a panel of them, and hit each one. Light blazed from a three-tiered crystal chandelier and filled the hall with a cozy glow. But the alarm kept beeping. I saw a box next to the door. I punched in the numbers and the noise stopped.

My footsteps echoed as I walked to an oval staircase. Paintings of angry-looking women stared down, silently warning me not to touch anything. I’d never seen this much finery, not even at Miss Dora’s home, and it scared me.

I stopped in front of a table and dropped the tasseled key chain into a crystal bowl. A piece of glass chipped off and skittered to the floor. I leaned over to examine the bowl. Waterford. I’d been in the house three minutes, and I’d already damaged a priceless artifact.

A sick feeling came over me. I squatted beside the staircase, fit my inhaler into my lips, and sucked in the bitter Ventolin. I was dying for a cup of tea but when I get tired, I get clumsy. Even if I drank water from the tap, I’d break the faucet. If I stayed longer than a night, I’d want to cook barbecued ribs and fry a batch of coconut shrimp, but a house like this cried out for cheese soufflé and cold watermelon soup.

I couldn’t see myself cooking here. I’d inherited the untidy gene—all the Templeton women had it. We cooked from scratch, creating feather-light biscuits. But we also made epic messes. I wasn’t built for high-class living. I let the dishes pile up in the sink; I didn’t always eat at the table. Home was a place where I could eat Oreo Cakesters in bed. Only I couldn’t get home. And I was stuck in a museum.

After a while, I got to my feet and grabbed the banister. It shifted to the right, like it was ready to fall down. The stairs gave indignant squeaks as I climbed to the second floor—a sign that the Spencer-Jackson House and I weren’t going to get along.

“Oh, shut up,” I told the staircase. When I reached the landing, I turned on the light. A gallery ran the length of the house, and the walls were lined with more pissed-off women. An arched window was open a crack, stirring the raspberry silk curtains. I caught the scent of sweet almond and thought of Mama. If she were here, she’d say, “Teeny, this house needs a little dirt. Go make mudpies.”

The smell followed me down the hall, into a room with pink toile wallpaper and bedding. I unlocked the window and it glided right up—no broken glass or scuffed paint.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled back the covers, and sank into the feather mattress. As I snuggled under the quilt, I thought about Bing. Was he hurt? Were those girls still with him?

Last New Year’s Day, when my beloved Aunt Bluette lay on her deathbed, she’d made me promise I wouldn’t turn away from love. She’d practically raised me and knew how I was. “Teeny, don’t be afraid to let people see your frightened heart,” she’d said.

I’d nodded and crossed my fingers behind my back. On that day, January first, I’d started an annual lie tally, and I’d just told fib number one. But I wanted her to leave this world with an easy mind and not worry about me in the hereafter.

“I don’t want to look down from heaven and see you waiting tables at Hooters,” Aunt Bluette said, even though I’d quit that job two years earlier. I’d given it up because the tips were shitty and my boss had gotten too fresh. Aunt Bluette had put her foot down and said I needed a more peaceable job, so I’d started working in the Food Lion bakery. At first, I wasn’t trusted to decorate the cakes, so I worked the counter and doled out free cookies to kids. The bakery ladies warmed up to me, and before long I was making special-order cakes.

Bing Jackson showed up at Aunt Bluette’s funeral and came back to her house with the mourners. I tried to place him as he walked around the dining table, piling food onto a plate. Spiral ham, bacon-deviled eggs, chicken and rice, seven-layer salad, and lemon chess pie. He gave me his card, Rodney Bingham Jackson III, and said to call him Bing. He’d been in Savannah when he’d read Aunt Bluette’s obituary. He was sorry for my loss, and if he could help in any way, such as listing the peach farm with his real estate company, just let him know.

Bonaventure was an hour’s drive from Savannah. I sized Bing up right fast. An ambulance chaser. Out for himself. If he thought I’d hire him to sell this farm, he could think again. I was all set to show him to the door when he claimed he’d bought peaches from Aunt Bluette last year. He’d also bought one of her upside-down cakes with an out-of-this-world crumbly topping. He’d never tasted anything that good, even at Poogan’s Porch in Charleston.

“Your aunt was a culinary genius,” Bing said.

It was true. The secret topping called for crushed pralines and pecans, with dark brown sugar, unsalted butter, and a dollop of molasses. The peaches were steeped in vanilla brandy for a solid month.

He smiled. I smiled back. If you want to get to me, just talk about food.

After the funeral, he kept coming around, driving all the way from Charleston. I talked to him through the screen door and wouldn’t even invite him in for coffee. Part of me didn’t trust him and the other part was grieving for my aunt. I tried to pack up her clothes, but they smelled just like her—vanilla extract and lemon furniture polish.

The more I packed, the harder I cried. I felt woozy, as if I had twirled in a circle and fallen into a hole. There were gaps all over our orchard where trees had died. Aunt Bluette’s handyman, Mr. Tom, would yank them out with the tractor, leaving pits. I had a hole inside me just like that. Somewhere in the dirt-dark black, the truth was hidden, the truth of me, who I was and who I would become. But I was too grieved to think about the future.

One afternoon I heard a car pull up the gravel drive. Bing got out of his Mercedes, and the sun hit his blond hair. I dried my tears and he took me to O’Charley’s for a steak dinner and said, “You and I, we’re alike. You lost your aunt, and I lost my daddy. We
get
each other, you know?”

We drank two bottles of wine and went to his motel room. “Teeny, I love your brown eyes,” he said. “I love your name. Teeny. It suits you to a T.”

The lovemaking was nice but unremarkable. No fireworks, just a little
pffft
, like the burp of a Tupperware container. If he’d been a pot of chicken soup, I would have tasted the broth and thought,
It needs something else.
I would have added salt, Tabasco, a grind of pepper.

Prior to our date, I’d been in love twice. My first love, Cooper O’Malley, left me with a broken heart. My second, Aaron Fisher, up and died. What did I know about sex? Maybe it was just like getting used to expensive French wines when I had a taste for spritzers.

“Was it good for you, too?” Bing asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. Lie number two.

The next morning, Bing and I ate breakfast at Waffle House. While we lingered over a second cup of coffee, a rainstorm hit and we waited for it to clear. When we finally got back to Aunt Bluette’s, a hackberry tree had fallen on the roof. I’d never had to face a household emergency by myself.

“Relax,” Bing said, “I’ll tend to this.”

He went into the attic to check for leaks. Then he started making phone calls. Tree surgeons and a gutter man descended. I liked Bing’s efficiency, and he was a good kisser. So, why wasn’t I bowled over? He was a man-angel who’d swooped down to rescue me. Besides, I couldn’t run an orchard by myself. If I stayed in Aunt Bluette’s house, I’d have to let things go. My job at Food Lion wouldn’t cover the propane bill, much less the upkeep on a hundred-year-old home.

Bing’s eyes said,
Trust me. I’m the one
. Though I couldn’t have said why, he reminded me of Aunt Bluette’s antique settee—the one with cream brocade, goose-down cushions, and carved rosewood feet. The perfect blend of beauty, comfort, and function.

My Baptist guilt had prevented me from living with a man who wasn’t my lawfully wedded husband, but it didn’t stop me from driving back and forth to his house in Mount Pleasant. Bing thought a two-carat diamond would fix things right up. I bargained with Jesus and asked Him to cut me some slack. After all, the modern world made Sodom and Gomorrah look tame.

I closed up the farmhouse, packed my turquoise Oldsmobile, and moved to Mount Pleasant. I planted an herb garden, organized the closets, and baked red velvet cupcakes. Bing worked long hours, but I didn’t want to complain. Then, an advertisement in the
Post and Courier
caught my attention. A Charleston neurosurgeon was selling a bulldog puppy. I drove to a white mansion on South Battery, and the doctor brought out a brown and white puppy. It ran in circles; then it stopped and tilted his head as if he’d just noticed me. A broad white stripe ran down the center of the pup’s flat, mashed-in head. The undershot jaw widened into a grin. Honest to god. The doctor sold him cheap, claiming he couldn’t stand the drooling and snorting.

I was a little nervous as I drove back over the bridge to Mount Pleasant. I wasn’t sure how Bing would react, but it was love at first sight for him, too. “Look at these teeth,” he said. “A dog like this commands respect. Let’s call him Sir.”

The name took. I house-trained Sir in a week, using little bits of cheese as a reward. Bing hired a carpenter to install doggie doors in the people doors. We taught Sir to fetch a stuffed squirrel—not so easy with that atrocious underbite. Every night we helped him onto our high cannonball bed. Sir would circle and circle before flopping down between us, his stubby legs stretched out behind him.

Those days were so sweet, and they stayed in my mind the way lemon meringue pie lingers on the tongue. Now they were gone. We’d only been together almost six months. That came to 4,320 hours. I’d read in the
National Enquirer
about short-lived celebrity marriages. Rudolph Valentino left his bride six hours after the wedding. Britney Spears’s first marriage ended after fifty-five hours. Ethel Merman and Ernest Borgnine, 768 hours. Nic Cage and Lisa Marie Presley, 2,160 hours.