The Last Original Wife (8 page)

Harlan was right behind me with my bags.

“Let's give you the whole third floor. How does that suit you?” He was already up the stairs with two bags, and I followed him with my duffel.

“Fine! That will be great.”

I climbed the first flight of stairs and stopped, feeling winded. My heart was pounding. I was awfully out of shape and I knew it. These steps would be good for me. But my initial thought that the third floor would be wonderful to have to myself could have been wrong—it might be dangerous. What if I had a stroke on top of everything else?

“Come on, chickee! Let's shake it up! It's cocktail time!”

“Harlan, it's only three thirty!” I called up the stairs.

“Honey? It's Sunday, and any time after church is cocktail time!”

I giggled, thinking that all over Charleston, gentlemen in linen suits and ladies in Lilly were imbibing mimosas and Bloodys, feeling virtuous for having attended services and a little naughty at the same time.

At last I reached the third floor.

“Moses! Harlan? I sure do wish you had an elevator. Lord!”

“There's no way to attach one to the house without compromising its integrity.”

“Still! Mercy!”

I dumped my duffel bag on the floor and huffed and puffed my way over to the window. The room had a beautiful view of Washington Park across the street. Mothers were there with their children, who played among the live oaks, azaleas, and boxwoods. Tourists and natives occupied the benches, enjoying cool drinks and sandwiches. Everyone seemed to be smiling. It was a beautiful, peaceful sight.

“Don't go all feeble on me, Sister! We have company arriving at six.”

“What? Who?”

“Oh, just a few friends I wanted to see before I left. So why don't you unpack and I'll meet you in the kitchen? I've been making super cubes all week. Gotta refill my trays.” He lifted up my largest bag and put it on the bed.

“Okay, Dr. Cool One, what's a super cube?”

“A two-inch-square ice cube that's hard as a rock so it doesn't dilute your drink.”

“Well, that's a piece of genius.”

“I'll say it is. Wish I'd thought of it. I'd have zillions!”

“Like Pet Rocks and Chia Pets.”

“Exactly. So how long can you stay anyway?”

Harlan eyeballed my luggage and then looked at me with a semianxious expression that said,
Just
when are you going to tell me what's going on here?

“I'm not sure. Why don't we discuss that over a cold glass of something?”

“Perfect! I'll see you in a few. Maybe you'll stay here while I'm in Italy?”

“Maybe I will!”

And he was gone, the quick and sure-footed sounds of his shoes on the steps fading until they disappeared.

I opened my first bag and then the closet door. Fortunately, there were plenty of empty hangers, and soon I had emptied the first bag and then the other. All that was left to do was move my toiletries into the bathroom. Harlan had put out beautiful thick white towels for me, and a plush matching robe hung on the hook behind the door. On the little table next to the sink was a cut glass tumbler and pretty containers of cotton swabs, cotton balls, and dental floss picks. The bathtub was wide and deep, and the thought of climbing in for a good long soak seemed like a dream. I picked up the bar of bath soap and inhaled. Verbena. My favorite. Every woman should have such a thoughtful brother, especially one you could run to in times of trouble.

I ran my brush through my hair and then I wound it up into a twist. Although Harlan's house was air-conditioned, heat rises and the third floor felt warm to me. I pulled the chain on the ceiling fan in my room and then in the sitting room next door. There was a sofa and a huge chintz club chair, a desk, and a flat-screen television. There was no reason to go downstairs except for food and human company.

I changed into a pair of pants, a cotton shirt, and flat sandals, ones that hopefully wouldn't slip on the steps, and went to find Harlan. He was, as promised, in the kitchen making a mountain of tomato sandwiches with Duke's mayonnaise and ham biscuits with Mrs. Sassard's Jerusalem Artichoke Relish.

“Wow! Don't you look cool and comfortable!” he said.

“Sweet thing,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

“There's tea in the fridge or I can make coffee if you want but I think it's too hot for coffee.”

“I'll pour tea. It's gotta be a thousand degrees outside.” I took two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice and tea. “Lemon?”

“In the hydrator drawer,” he said. “There are bunches of slices in a baggie. It just feels like a thousand. You'll adjust to the humidity.”

I squeezed two slices into our glasses, added two spoons of sugar, and stirred it all around.

“I know. Come sit with me,” I said, sitting down at his kitchen table.

“Okay,” he said and covered his platter of food with a clean damp linen towel. “Tell me what's going on, Sister Sue. Tell your big bubba everything.” He sat down across from me and raised his glass. “Our momma would die all over again if she saw you so distressed.”

“God rest her soul,” I said. “At least she had the good sense not to marry Willie. And she was right. I never should've married Wes.”

“You had a bun in the oven. It was almost thirty years ago. There weren't that many options and I told her so. Like a million times.”

“God, life is so complicated, isn't it?”

“How do you mean, sugar puss?”

“Well, look at Momma, now that you brought her up.” We rarely spoke of her because Harlan was a great fan of Momma and I wasn't. “There we were, growing up on Logan Street, South of Broad by a hair.”

“Well, after Daddy died, she wasn't going to live anywhere else. It gave her emotional security. You probably don't remember the big house on King Street.”

“No, I was too little. But the point is that we couldn't afford Logan Street. She should've moved us out to west of the Ashley or east of the Cooper.”

“Are you kidding? She would've rather died than live in the burbs! You know that!”

“Excuse me, so she worked as a
cocktail waitress
in a dive bar on Rivers Avenue outside the gate to the naval base so we could pay the rent and say we had bragging rights on a South of Broad address? Do you see a conflict here?”

“Honey, what she saw was two hundred dollars a night in cash and your Ashley Hall tuition paid in full. It was honest work. You want more tea?”

“No, thanks. If Ashley Hall had known what Momma was doing, they would've thrown me out the front door.”

“She was the Merry Widow, hon.”

“Carrying on with Willie who owned the bar for how long? And she never married Willie because?”

“He had too many tattoos. I know, I know. It's confusing. But he let her work there until the day she died. He was a good man. Most bars wouldn't have women over forty selling drinks. There's terrible age discrimination, even today.”

“You're telling me? That's part of what brings me to your door, Harlan.”

“Come on, Leslie, let's bury Momma for the moment and let me have the big story.”

“Oh, Harlan, I don't even know where to begin.”

But I did begin and over the next hour or so all my worries were laid on the table to be considered, and at last I got to the horrible money business.

“Back up the bus, baby.
What
did you just say? Did you say twenty-two million dollars?”

“Yes. Harlan, I'm just worried sick about it. You and I both know that Wes has
never
earned that kind of money. He's got to be involved in something very bad. I don't care what kind of bonuses he makes or how well the company is doing. It just doesn't make any sense to me.”

“Look, who knows?”

“I shouldn't have done it, but I took his bank statement from the house. I have it upstairs. Should I go get it?”

Harlan was incredulous.

“Not now. We don't have time. God knows, but he's a cheap son of a b. He probably invested his First Communion money in IBM. I'll have to give this some thought. There's never been a great love between us, but I don't think he's a crook, Les. I just don't see it.” He sat back in his chair and exhaled long and slow. “Do you remember if there were any specific stocks listed?”

“Wes owns a single share of Coca-Cola his great-grandfather bought for his father in something like 1920. Right when the company went into business. And he's got some Apple and Microsoft. Maybe some others. I know he has some money in funds.”

“Well, look, if he still has that Coke stock, it has to have split like a thousand times. I'll look it up on the Internet in the morning. I promise, first thing tomorrow. Come on, let's set up the bar and the dining room table. Marge will be here soon.”

“Who's Marge?”

“Local talent. She helps me with parties.”

“Oh, well, that's good!” I was chewing on my lip, something I'd done since childhood when I was worried. “What do you think Wes will think when I'm not there with his supper?”

“Don't worry so much. You'll get wrinkles. But you
should
tell Wes you're here.”

“I can't deal with him. I just can't. And I don't want to.”

“Okay. I understand that, but he's going to be very angry, you know.”

“How about I don't care?”

“Okay. Do you want me to handle him? I can call him if you like.”

“Do whatever you want. I just don't want to talk to him right now.”

“All right, in the meanwhile, let's get rid of that ugly old hospital supply sling—I have a big silk Hermès scarf that will look ever so much more Hepburn!”

I giggled. “Which one? Audrey or Katharine?”

“Does it matter?”

It did not.

“And I meant what I said about you staying here. It's only a month.”

“I'll really think about it, Harlan. Thanks.”

When I went upstairs to change, there was my sundress on the bed. I didn't remember putting it there. Nonetheless, I slipped into it, Harlan changed my sling, a definite upgrade, and with a little makeup I looked so much better. I still hadn't turned on my cell phone because I didn't want to hear from Wes. And I wondered if Harlan called him.

The doorbell began to ring, and soon, from the garden to the living room, Harlan's friends were milling about, telling stories, gobbling up sandwiches, and drinking all kinds of cocktails, the most popular being Dark and Stormys—a mixture of rum and ginger beer—and Manhattans made with rye, vermouth, and cherries. Funny. In Atlanta we mostly drank wine. It looked like Charleston still liked her cocktails. Anyway, our mother always had, and this crowd sure did. There was something very comforting about traditions being honored. And I remembered then that Dark and Stormys were Leonard's favorite drink.

I heard a voice behind me and I knew I recognized it from somewhere in my past.

“Cocktail parties were invented in Charleston, you know.”

I turned around and ran right into the smirking smile of Jonathan Ray, my first serious boyfriend. I knew immediately that Harlan had invited him for my sake. As good as he was, Harlan liked being controversial from time to time.

The years had been kind to Jonathan. He was gray around the temples, but he still had a full head of hair and the prettiest blue eyes the good Lord ever gave to a man besides Paul Newman.

“Well, look at you! Jonathan! How wonderful to see you again! And what do you mean cocktail parties were invented here? I've never heard that.”

“That doesn't mean it's not true. Thirty years later and she's still the skeptic? Can I freshen up your drink?”

“Sure, why not?”

We stepped over to the bar where Marge was shaking one mini cocktail shaker after another with such enthusiasm I wondered how her elbows could stand it.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

The super cubes banging against the stainless steel made a riotous noise.

“What are you drinking?” Jonathan said.

“Oh, just vodka with a bunch of tonic and a lime,” I said.

“I've got one for you!” Marge said. “How about a Georgia Punch?”

“For a Georgia Peach!” Jonathan said. “Perfect!”

“Great! But I'm a transplant, you know,” I said and managed a weak smile, thinking that this peach had already been bruised enough.

“Haven't you been there long enough to claim Georgia?”

“Jonathan, when you're born in Charleston, you should know it's impossible to be anything but a Charlestonian. The last thing you want is dual citizenship.”

“That's actually comforting to hear,” he said.

She handed the frosty glass to Jonathan, and he handed it to me with a napkin. No ring. Wedding ring, that is. Why was I even looking?

“I'll have a Manhattan,” he said to Marge.

“Right away!” she said, and inside of a minute she handed the tumbler to him.

“Thanks,” he said and turned to me. “So why don't we sneak out to the garden where we can hear ourselves think?”

“Sure, but shouldn't we tell your wife where we're going?”

“Can't do that,” he said, with the funniest expression. “She's ancient history.”

“Really? Didn't you marry Clare Mullarney? What happened to her?”

We worked our way through the dining room to the kitchen and finally to the open French doors in the den. Then we stepped out onto the terrace where fig ivy climbed the walls and the sweet smells of Confederate jasmine were all over us as though we had walked into a cloud of it.

“Wow? Smell that?” he said and I nodded. “What happened? Well, let's see. We got married, we had two children, she started painting landscapes with a bunch of
en plein air
pot-smoking hippies.”