Bulls Island (30 page)

“Normally, I would say no, that this was a business event. But maybe some beer would soften them up. What do you think?”

“I think it’s probably not a good idea, now that I’m thinking about
it. There are the issues of liability to consider and that many more portable potties to rent…”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Okay, see what you can cook up with Sela and we can plan a nice dinner for afterward for your guys from the big city. Peninsula Grill? How’s that?”

“That’s perfect. A postmortem while it’s all still fresh. Where should I put them up?”

“Charleston Place. There are loads of B and Bs around, but I’ll bet they’re the types who will want room service and all that, am I right?”

“Definitely, and the
Wall Street Journal
on their pillow.”

“Got it. You want me to make the reservations?”

“No, thanks. I’ll do that…”

The next hour or so was spent on the mundane details of the event and we divided up the workload between us. We had sandwiches brought in and worked through lunch, and finally around two, I felt the next step was to just go get busy laying the groundwork.

When I was leaving, J.D. said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I gave him a weak smile.

“What’s bothering you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sure, nothing. First, you tell me you want me, then you tell me you’re back in there with Valerie, then you pluck my heartstrings about ten more times, and then we plan a barbecue.

I called Sela on my cell to see if she had a little time to talk about the Bulls Island Rally, as I was calling the PR event at the moment, trying on a name to see how it felt.

“Come right over,” she said. “We’re in between lunch and dinner, so it’s a great time to do this.”

I was at the restaurant in just minutes and we sat at a back table.

“So what are you thinking of for food?” Sela asked.

“J.D.’s muscles slathered with guacamole.”

“Umm, umm. Girl, aren’t you allergic to shellfish with raging lunatic wives?”

“Right. I forgot. How about loin of J.D. on pumpernickel?”

“Ummmmm? Ms. McGee? What’s going on with you?”

“Just that I have come to the realization that my whole fantasy about having J.D. is probably hopeless. So it’s okay to trivialize the remains of my love life with carnal humor while I entertain a probable next career as a country-music singer.”

“So that’s the cause for your twang?”

“Yeah…”

I told Sela about Louisa’s visit, J.D.’s remarks about Valerie, the possibility that J.D. had met Vinny Braggadocio in a bar, and under the seal of the confessional, I told her about J.D.’s discovery of his half brother.

“Whew! You’ve had a helluva twenty-four hours! What’s up with Vinny maybe being in Charleston? And meeting J.D.?”

“Right? J.D. was hauling Valerie’s drunk ass out of a bar in the middle of the night. I swear to you on a stack of Bibles that he described Vinny and that little rat who’s been following me.”

“What little rat?”

“I didn’t
tell
you this?”

“Um, I think I would remember something like you being followed.”

I gave Sela the lowdown on Vinny and the goon and she said, “I’m telling Ed.”

“Oh, don’t bother him. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Maybe, but just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean you
shouldn’t
be! I’m telling Ed today and I want his guys all over this.”

“Maybe. So to ice this cake, J.D. seemed
way
more bothered by
the fact that he had been kept in the dark than he was happy to discover he had a half brother.”

“Well, speaking as an heir…”

“No, I don’t think money had anything to do with his attitude about it. I think he was seriously provoked that his father and mother had hidden the facts from him. That his respect for them has been greatly compromised by the lies upon lies upon lies.”

“I think you’re dead wrong because you’re just caught up in your own guilt. I’ll bet you anything in this world that J. D. Langley has been gunning for his parents since the day you left town.”

“You think?”

“You know what? Here we are together again after twenty years. You and I still fit. You and J.D. still fit. Ed and I still fit. Valerie doesn’t fit and never did. Even if she wasn’t a pill-popping sot, she wouldn’t fit in with the Langleys for one big fat reason and that reason is you. How many times do we have to go over this?”

Sela’s patience appeared to be wearing thin. Maybe she was suffering from some unusual stress or I had been so selfish, talking about my issues so incessantly that I was wearing her out. Probably the latter, I surmised, blushing again.

“You’re right. So let’s talk food. No booze.”

“Mini-quesadillas, chicken satay with a peanut dipping sauce, slider burgers, curried shrimp on toothpicks, fruit skewers with a mixed-berry yogurt dipping sauce, mini–ice-cream sandwiches, mango smoothies, sodas, tea, and iced water. Twenty dollars a person, not including rentals, service, tax, and gratuities. I’ll send you a list. Done!”

“No pigs in blankets?”

“I’ll go out to Sam’s Club and get tons of them. Happy?”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a couple of times.”

I started to laugh then. “You amaze me, Sela O’Farrell! You’re
the only woman I know who can trim my sails and pull a party for five hundred out of her pocket in five minutes.”

Her expression turned grim. “Five hundred? Wait. You didn’t say anything about
that
many people.”

“Oh! Wait! Don’t worry. We’ll enlist the troops to help. I’ll call Joanie, and Sandi will help and her brother—that’s three more people right there.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Ed to give us some day-passers from the county cooler on the work-release program.” I must have looked at her in horror because she broke up laughing. “Good grief, Betts! I actually had you! Wait till I tell Ed…”

I got up and hugged her as hard as I could. “Thanks, Sela.”

“Don’t forget, I’m not such a saint. This is how I pay the bills.”

“Then throw in a shrink’s fee!”

“Seriously!”

I blew her a kiss, and by the time I walked back to my office, a faxed proposal was on my desk.

“I don’t know how she does it,” I said, holding the proposal up in front of Sandi.

“Must have a template,” she said.

“She must. Okay, come on inside with me.”

“So what’s going on?” she asked.

I gave her all the preliminary plans for our No Bull Today (new possible event title) and she took a lot of notes.

“Can you think of anything we’re missing?”

“Additional water transportation?”

“Good point! Thanks. Anything else?”

Sandi loved planning events more than anyone I had ever worked with. They were her chance to shine and shine she did.

“I see lots and lots of visuals—you know, canvas blowups of photographs of the plans, all on easels around the tent. You know, we have people enter, get a drink, amble along in sort of a serpentine fashion
after a receiving line so they are almost forced to look at the different stages of development on the easels? I mean, let’s walk through this in our heads. They get off the boat and onto what? A bus?”

Sandi and I had planned and executed scores of successful dinners and special events. I trusted her judgment completely, whether it was to set up temporary offices or arrange a dinner for a thousand.

“Yes, buses. We have to have this in the clearing, by the Dominick House, where the bathrooms are. The ground is very level there.”

“That makes sense. What about ADA compliance? Is there a handicap-access bathroom?”

“Don’t know. I’ll have to check.”

The next hour was spent recounting and expanding the outline I had put together with J.D. In the end we talked about the ad.

“Even on short notice like this, we still need to reach out to the whole community.”

“What about radio and television?”

“If you could line that up, anything at all, it would be great.”

“I’ll make some calls. What about the mayor?”

“Joe Riley? Well, it is in Charleston County. Absolutely. Let’s ask him to say a few words.”

“Great idea.”

“And what about the content for the ad?” Sandi said.

“I’ll work on that and all the logistical stuff, too. J.D. has resources for transportation and whatever we need in that department, I’m sure…”

The two weeks flew by so fast I didn’t have time to do anything except sleep, eat, and plan the Bulls Island event, which was now called simply “Bulls Island—Open House.”

Sandi and I took Sela and her chef out to the island with the tent and rental company to do a walk-through. J.D. and I did an
appearance on
Lowcountry Live,
a local morning television program, and we raced up to Columbia to tape an interview with Walter Edgar for
Walter Edgar’s Journal,
which aired on the state’s NPR affiliate. Our letter ran in the
Post & Courier
twice and we were getting tons of phone calls. The website got hundreds of hits and I began to worry that we would have more than five hundred people.

I called Sela about a hundred times that week and the last phone call had been about crowd management.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get Ed to ask the Isle of Palms Police Department to post an officer at the dock with a counter. When he clicks five hundred and fifty, not counting our people, obviously, he won’t let any more folks go over to the island. Done!”

“Brilliant! You’ll have food for five hundred and fifty people?”

“Honey, I’ll have food for the army and the navy.” J.D. had his hands full with Valerie, and when I saw him on the Thursday before the open house, he told me he hadn’t seen her in the last twenty-four hours. Naturally, he was frantic. Then he got a call late that night from one of Ed’s officers, who’d found her sleeping in her car in a parking lot on St. George Street, behind Bob Ellis Shoes. Her pulse was dangerously low, so they rushed her to the emergency room. She’d taken an apparent overdose. So they called J.D., pumped Valerie’s stomach, and admitted her for a twenty-four-hour observation and a psychiatric evaluation.

“I hope like hell they can talk her into a rehab program,” he said. “I told the admitting doctor everything I knew.”

“So, was he shocked that somebody wearing a billion dollars’ worth of diamonds could indulge in that kind of behavior?”

“Half a billion. Not in the least. He gave me her jewelry and her purse and I took it all home. She was steaming mad. And I mean
steaming
mad. But she can sign herself out anytime she wants, and she probably will.”

“I’m sure. You don’t think she’s going to let us throw this big shindig without her, do you?”

“You’re right. She won’t.”

“My dad and sister are coming, too, to see if they can lend a hand.”

“Like Sela is gonna let your sister touch the food?”

“Right? Not without a hairnet and gloves. But Joanie’s looking pretty good these days.”

“Really?”

“Boyfriend. Sandi’s brother, Cam the vet. He’s coming, too.”

“Joanie with a man. Well, if you live long enough, you see everything, don’t you?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“My parents are coming. And my new brother, Mickey, who doesn’t know I’m his brother.”

“Poor kid. Well, I expected Louisa and Big Jim would show. Sorry, but yo momma never missed a single solitary photo op in her whole life!”

J.D. burst out laughing.

“Well, I may have come across a brother I didn’t know existed, but with any luck, Mother will finally get the daughter-in-law she deserves!”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

The cat-and-mouse thing with J.D. was exhausting. At that point I’d believe J.D. when I saw a divorce decree and the ring, and not sooner.

Bruton was arriving Friday night, and although I had offered to pick him up at the private airport, he declined, saying he was coming in with McGrath and Pinkham and they had other matters to discuss and would work through dinner. I was to meet them for breakfast Saturday morning at eight.

At 7:35 that morning, I was in the Charleston Place lobby restaurant reading the paper, enjoying my first cup of tea of the day. I don’t know why I wasn’t worried or nervous. You would have thought the biggest thing on my agenda was a manicure. But somehow, having Ben there along with my favorite partners was calming. I was anxious for them to see the island because I knew they would fall in love with it.

Most importantly, J.D. would take care of the appropriate Lowcountry wooing. He would squire them over to Bulls Island on his precious Chris-Craft Riviera. He would have the chef at Peninsula Grill make some special seafood concoction for them that would have them begging for more. By the time we put them back on the plane, they would think of themselves as honorary good old boys and J.D. would already have made a date with them to go fishing the next time they came down. I was confident and fully prepared for my meeting with them.