Isle of Palms (47 page)

“She’s a trip,” Jim said, referring to Lucy. “Anybody want anything?”

We shook our heads. I was too stunned to even know if I could swallow another drop of anything.

“I’ll say she’s a trip,” Frannie said, sending a little cloud into the night air. “On top of that, she’s a regular private investigator.”

Frannie’s cigarette smelled wonderful, but I gave her a little hell anyway. “When are you gonna quit smoking?” I said. “That shit kills, you know.”

“If you lived my life, you’d smoke too. I have my laptop inside,” Frannie said, taking a deep drag of her cigarette. We watched her smoke spiral above us and then, like a tiny fog in a dream, it slowly rolled away on the breeze. “Wanna go see the dirtbag’s website?”

“Definitely,” Jim said, and stood, “let’s go.”

I shivered all over, from just the slightest thought of actually seeing the face of the man who in one evening had altered my future, Jim’s future, and brought my only daughter into this world. Still, I followed them inside.

“I don’t know,” I said, the screen door closing behind me. “Maybe I don’t want to know anything about him.”

Everyone was quiet for a minute. This was déjà vu of my worst nightmare. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to revisit the past. Not so sure at all.

I had always thought of Emily minus Everett. The only justice I had was that Everett had been denied acting as her father. He didn’t even know Emily existed and had probably forgotten about me as well. He didn’t know he had a gorgeous daughter with his spooky green eyes and his platinum hair. And, suppose we dug him up? What would that do to Jim? I’d been planning Emily’s wedding since the day she was born and Jim was the only man I could envision walking Emily down the aisle. Everett would ruin the pictures, to say the least. What possible good could come from Everett Fairchild at this point in our lives?

What would it do to Emily? She had voiced some suspicion about Jim but she had no clue that her birth was the result of a rape. Resurrecting Everett would make the truth necessary.

“Well, you don’t have to look,” Jim said. “I will.”

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” Frannie said.

“Hell yes, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes. Yes, I would be afraid. But that wouldn’t keep me from looking. I guess that’s how I am.”

“Yeah, balls, up there under that skirt somewhere. You’ve got ’em. I don’t. Look, y’all,” I said, “I wrote this criminal out of my life years ago, and with your help, I’d like to add. Why in the world would I want to know how well he was doing? Personally, I hope he’s living in a hell of his own.”

“Well, he might be,” Jim said, “you never know.”

“On the other hand,” Frannie said, her jaw squared off like it used to when we were children and she was ready for battle, “
you
have the power to make his life a living hell.”

“Now,
that’s
worth looking into!” Jim wrung his hands and shifted his eyes around the room, impersonating the evil landlord.

“You’re right.” I took a deep breath. “I guess it’s now or later, and later I’d be forced to go through this with Lucy. I guess this is the lesser of two evils.”

“Oh, thanks a lot,” Frannie said. Standing by my dining table, she plugged her laptop into my phone jack and booted it up. “Come on, thing! God, I hate waiting!”

“I’ll go get the chairs,” Jim said. “Laptops take forever.”

I went with him to help. The night was cool and quiet. I could hear the tide rolling in and the air smelled like it always did—pine, jasmine, salt. How could the world be so normal when my insides were turning flips?

“I don’t know about this, Jim,” I said.

“When the future is uncertain, it’s best to face it. Since when are you a coward?”

“Since always.”

“Yeah, like Eleanor Roosevelt.”

We each carried two chairs and struggled a little by the door, finally getting them inside.

“What if Emily walks in?” I said, getting more nervous by the second.

“I’ll switch the screen to MSN or something. Come on. Don’t hyperventilate. All we’re gonna do is look at his site.”

First, she typed in SEA PRO, the brand of boat he sold, and arrived at the official website for the company. Then she clicked on “Dealers,” “Florida,” and “Clearwater.” There it was. Just like that.

There was Everett Fairchild, older but suntanned and smiling, wearing Ray-Bans and a knit shirt, standing by a row of boats on trailers. I would have known him anywhere. There was his phone number, address, directions to his dealership, testimonials from satisfied customers, and links to see all the models he carried. It had taken mere minutes to discover the whereabouts of the
worst
person ever foisted on me by fate. And he was going to be on the Isle of Palms the second week of August. What in the name of heaven was I going to do?

“Oh, my God,” I said, “it’s him.” My voice had no emotion.

“He still looks like an asshole,” Frannie said.

“I’ll bet he still is one too,” Jim said. “Come on, Anna, what do you think?”

“I think I have to go to bed,” I said. “I feel sick.”

“Me too,” said Frannie, and she began closing screens. “Jim, you get the couch tonight. Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m packed.”

“Good night, y’all, love you!”

It wasn’t thirty minutes before Emily tumbled into bed next to me, smelling like the contents of a brewery.

“You know what?” I whispered to her.

“What?” she said.

“When you take your momma’s beer and you’re underage, you’re supposed to brush your teeth so she won’t smell your raunchy breath.”

“Saaa-wee, Mommy.”

“Bad girl. Bad, bad girl.” I’d lecture her tomorrow, I thought. “How’s David?”

“Fabuloso. He is soooo amazing.”

I imagined that meant all was well. “Good, honey. Let’s get some sleep.”

I thought it would be hours before sleep would come, that I was going to be tortured all night by thoughts of Everett Fairchild. I decided to say my prayers. I wasn’t someone who drove the good Lord crazy with endless petitions; I really didn’t. I saved my begging for rare and desperate occasions and this certainly qualified as one. Maybe if I asked for some guidance, it would come. Fortunately, guidance was the last thing I remembered thinking about and I rolled over to hit the snooze button on my alarm. It was morning. I had slept so hard it surprised me. Maybe God figured I needed beauty rest more than advice.

Breakfast was our last meal together for Frannie, Jim, and me. Emily was sleeping until the last possible minute she could. Teenagers could sleep like nothing I’d ever seen. Anyway, breakfast wasn’t anything glamorous, just cereal and toast, but the coffee was as rich and strong as the conversation. And, I didn’t feel as badly as I would have about them leaving because Jim and Frannie talked loud and long about their plans to come back in August.

“You know,” Frannie said, “August is dead in my business. All the pols are in the Hamptons or on a boat somewhere, enjoying a weekend with major party donors, under the guise of campaign strategic planning.”

“I hate politics and politicians,” I said. “I don’t know how you put up with all those powermongering egomaniacs. Jeesch. Too much bull for me.”

“Easy. I get paid enough to overlook the fact that I’m like Ralph Kramden’s buddy, working the sewers. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it. That is, somebody’s
gonna
do it and get paid, so it may as well be me. It’s a living, not a calling.”

“Well, I can identify with that, except what the heck does that say about us? I enjoy making people look better. I really do. But it doesn’t exactly feed my soul.”

“I don’t think very many people have the luxury of a career that pays the bills
and
feeds the soul,” Frannie said. “Maybe artists, movie stars, Broadway stars, rock stars, journalists . . .”

Then Jim piped in, “People who cure terrible diseases, opera singers, museum curators, art dealers on Madison Avenue, international fashion photographers, great chefs, architects, some teachers—probably at the university level—anthropologists . . .”

“Everybody but us,” I said.

“Basically,” Frannie said.

Jim jumped in. “What about the great vintners of Europe, Napa, and Sonoma? Great wine feeds the soul, the senses
and
pays the bills, doesn’t it? And what about decorators? Lots of them make fortunes and love what they do! And antique dealers?”

“Yeah,” Frannie said, “it sucks to have to do something every day that doesn’t really fire you up inside. I mean, I help these suits protect their agendas and get what they want. I justify it by thinking of myself as a missionary or a guide, you know? I lead the innocents through the fires of hell without them getting burned.”

“You should’ve been a litigator, Frannie,” Jim said, “you could argue anything and make the world believe it.”

“Yeah, the world needs another lawyer.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I could plan my life over,” I said. “Maybe I’d be a landscape architect or something.”

“I think I’d run away from the world. Maybe I’d have a resort on a remote island like Fiji or someplace like that,” Frannie said. “Jim? You could run the restaurant and Anna could rearrange palm trees and flower beds until her last breath. Then we could push each other in rockers and read all the great books.”

“Sounds awfully boring—truly dreadful,” I said. “I’ll stay here and run my little salon and make smoothies for all the tourists. Y’all send me a postcard.”

“Not me, honey,” Jim said. “I ain’t going to the South Seas unless the IRS is after me.”

“Well, for the moment,” Frannie said, “I’d settle for just one long weekend of lying in the sun and reading one of the books I’ve bought but haven’t had time to read. It would be so great to just hang out together and really get back in each other’s lives. You know?”

“Definitely,” Jim said. “I’ve got this awful feeling that by August I’m going to need some heavy doses of cheer.”

“Y’all know what all this means, don’t you?” I looked from Frannie’s face to Jim’s. “It means we need to take an oath that we’ll see each other more often. We’re practically family—at least we used to be.”

“Anna’s right, Jim. I mean, shoot! Look at us! We’re not getting any younger. Life is traveling faster than light these days. Pretty soon those idiots at AARP are gonna start jamming my mailbox with coupons for, God knows—adult diapers! Ugh!”

“She’s right. We’re getting older by the second,” Jim said. “Frannie ain’t got no husband. In fact, none of us do, but at least you have Arthur. How’s that going?”

“He’s great, but he doesn’t want to get involved, even though he’s involved. And because I know you’re dying to know, the boy is hot, okay? I’m seeing him tonight.” I picked up my plate, taking it to the kitchen. “Y’all want another pot of coffee? I gotta get to work.”

“No more coffee for me,” Jim said. “I’m going to the beach. Okay?”

“Anna,” Frannie said, “Jim and I thought we might spend the morning on the beach and I was hoping you or somebody in your salon could do something with my hair this afternoon before I have to fly out of here.”

“No problem! I’ve been dying to get my hands on your head for about a million years, girl! Y’all go to the beach and I’ll see you around three? You can’t leave here without seeing the salon anyway!”

“Can I go to the beach too?” Emily said, coming out from the bedroom, yawning and struggling to open her eyes.

“Forget it,” I said, “you’re lucky I’m not tearing up your behind for last night.”

“Mother Superior! You’re a tough nut!” Jim said. “Let her come! I never get to see her! How about I bring her in at noon? I have to be at the airport by two.” He looked at Emily. “What’d you do, you little wench?”

“Nothing,” Emily said, face flushed.

“She and David ripped off a six-pack and she sneaked into bed, half trashed, after midnight,” I said. “She smelled like a derelict.”

“Emily!” Jim said. “I am
shocked!
If this young gentleman can’t provide the contraband for your entertainment without reducing you to common thievery, I say, dump the lout! Like that!” He snapped his fingers in midair and flicked his wrist. “What’s the drinking age around here anyway?”

“She ain’t there,” Frannie said, “but neither were we when we used to buy cases of beer with fake ID.”

“Good point,” I said. I didn’t approve of underage drinking one bit, but the fact was that we had all done it. “Okay. You get yourself to the salon by noon, ’eah?”

“Okay,” Emily said. “Whatever.”

I loved when she said
whatever
. What did it mean? That she didn’t care what I said when I knew she really did?

I sailed into the salon before nine-thirty. Bettina and Brigitte were gathered around Lucy. The hair on my neck stood up. I knew I had been betrayed. It was obvious she had told them about Everett and was squeezing every drop of sap from the story for them that she could. Murder crossed my mind. After swearing up and down she wouldn’t say anything, she had told them. I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t my imagination, because they all looked nervous and guilty.

“Morning, Anna,” Brigitte said, walking away from them, reaching for a tissue to blow her nose. “Excuse me. Allergies. Thanks for last night. We had a great time, didn’t we?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Bettina said. “I never saw Bobby eat so much! Those shrimps were fan-tas-tic!”

Lucy slithered toward the bathroom, like a snake from the bottom of the swamp.

“Morning, everyone,” I said, and threw my purse in the cabinet next to my station without looking at them, closing the cubby door harder than I should have. “Lucy? Can I have a word with you?”

Silence.

“Sure! I just have to powder my nose, okay?”

They knew I was angry. I looked in the mirror and rubbed a trace of mascara from beneath my eyes. For a split second I imagined myself the founder of a nonsmearing mascara company for humid climates. I stood there and ran a comb through my hair, over and over.