The Girls of August (6 page)

I exited the elevator and rounded the corner, expecting her to be in her favored
spot in the sunroom. No one was there so I headed to her room, thinking that perhaps
they hadn’t yet probed and prodded her that morning, allowing her to sleep later
than usual. The canned laughter and exaggerated sound effects that were the telltale
hallmarks of cartoons wafted from the rooms of other sick children. I knocked on
Tiffany’s door—it was slightly ajar—and walked on in.

But there was no Tiffany. Stripped: There were no sheets on the bed. There were no
stuffed animals holding hearts or get-well-soon balloons. Gone were the photos of
family and classmates. No flowers. No watercolors glowing with yellow blooms. I spun
around: no chart.

I ran out the door and down the hall. Now the tears were streaming. I followed the
corridor to its very end and took a left. Teddy would know. I would make him tell
me everything. I bumped into a nurse but didn’t bother with any excuse mes. Desperation
had made me rude. Laughter drifted out of Teddy’s office and curled its way toward
me. His laughter sounded like champagne and crushed glass. Hers sounded like diamonds
spilling onto a concrete floor. I burst through the door. I knew who it was before
I even laid eyes on her: the beautiful Barbie-doll blonde from the Christmas party.
Her hand rested on his and she seemed flushed with something wonderful: the emergence
of fresh love.

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?” I hissed.

Teddy leaped from his chair. Her mouth puckered into a tiny, confused, bright-red
bud.

“Oh, Maddy, I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s just…Cornelia and I met
and well, these things happen. And I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. I’ve wanted
us to sit down and—”

“Tiffany. I’m talking about Tiffany,” I sputtered, too shattered to acknowledge anything
he’d said.

Cornelia excused herself, saying, “Well, I see you two have a lot to discuss.” She
stood, and her beauty and her Chanel suit made me wilt. “I’ll see you later.” She
wagged her fingers at Teddy and then, as she walked past, placed a sympathetic hand
on my shoulder.

I flinched but didn’t take my eyes off Teddy, who, it appeared, didn’t handle confrontation
very well.

Teddy stared at the floor. He sighed. And then, “She died last night.”

“What time?”

He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Around eight thirty. Her body just
couldn’t take any more. We couldn’t get her WBC up and…” He trailed off.

“Why…didn’t…you…call…me?”

And then I knew. He hadn’t been working at all. He had lied to me. It was as fresh
as her scent on his lips. He had been out with
her
.

I was about to lose control. I was about to cry in that loud, gulping, totally ungracious
manner that prompts people to laugh at you. Or flee. And I didn’t want to pummel
Teddy with his lie. I was above that.

So I ran out of his office and fled to the closest safe space: the closet around
the corner and four doors down. I slumped to the floor and wept bitter tears. I was
racked with grief, heartbroken, embarrassed, pathetic.

Why had I let myself fall for the likes of Teddy Patterson? My first instincts had
been right
and
wrong. Like Mac, he didn’t want a girl who spent her Saturday mornings creating
lesson plans. No sirree, Bob! Not Teddy! He wanted one who had breakfast with her
banker.

I reached for a towel in a stack to my left and buried my face in it. As I wept, I
heard the door open.
Please, God, no, no, no
!
I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t fit under the bookcase because it was flush with
the floor. There weren’t enough towels to hide behind. I didn’t have enough time
to scurry behind the trash bin or that pile of fresh sheets. The dust mop offered
no help at all. I was screwed. I’d just been caught crying like a schoolgirl over
spilled milk. I decided my best bet was to keep my face covered with the crying rag.
Whoever it was would never be able to identify me. Plausible deniability: That was
the ticket. Whoever it was would decide they’d stumbled across a crazy person and
simply go away.

But that, of course, is not what happened. The stranger knelt beside me, pushed my
hair out of my face, and whispered, “Hey. Come on. Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled by the towel.

“You could find somebody so much better to cry over, you know.”

“Who?” I whispered.

He took the towel away from my face and gazed at me, his glasses still lopsided.

“Me. I know I can’t help you about losing Tiffany,” Mac McCauley said, dabbing my
face, wiping away my tears, “but that other guy? Why, he ain’t nothing more than
a twenty-four-hour flu.”

And that’s how it all began, on the floor of the broom closet. Where once I had seen
Teddy everywhere—his fingerprints dappled all over my future—I began slowly, day
by day, moment by moment, to see Mac.

And even though eventually the deep ache in my empty womb would grow fierce, it would
never mitigate my love for Mac. We were right together. No doubt about it.

Teddy and I were simply a bad fit, like hair spray and fire. As for platinum-plated
Cornelia Colleton, I figured Teddy deserved every ounce of heartache she would ultimately
mete out. Teddy and Melinda, however, they had been right together. She eased him,
filled up the unnamable longing that stalked him. And then, she was gone and there
was Baby. God knew that man needed to grow up way more than he needed a trophy wife
more than twenty years his junior.

At the thought of Baby, memories of my soft beginning with Mac tumbled away, washed
by the sound of the surf unfurling on Tiger Island’s white sand. And in that bright
sunlight my eyes watered. Or were they tears born of bittersweet remembrance?

I climbed the porch stairs and, in my imagination, I saw not only my footprints on
the sand-covered wooden planks, but my husband’s. They were right there beside mine,
step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat.

T
he house was as fabulous inside as it was outside. The living room was big and breezy
with a comfortable mix of white wicker and natural rattan furniture, all covered
in vintage tropical-print bark cloth—yellow with big red hibiscus flowers and opulent
green leaves. Drapes in the same fabric were pushed wide open, revealing the bank
of nearly floor-to-ceiling Atlantic-facing windows. The house was easy—wide-plank
pine floors, railroad-board walls painted bright white, at least three fireplaces
(I definitely would have to go exploring), black-and-white family photos, and wedding
photos of Baby and Teddy (she wore a skintight lace minidress and a veil that touched
her bare shoulders). Gullah sweetgrass baskets were tossed here and there and everywhere,
and seashells and sea glass sparkled on pine sills.

“Look at this pecky cypress coffee table,” I exclaimed. “Where on earth did you find
it?”

“My grandfather made it,” Baby said, pouring us each a cold glass of white wine.
“It’s made from cypress that grew on his place on the Santee River. He could make
anything. That’s him as a little boy with my great-grandparents.” Baby nodded in
the direction of the fireplace centered in the wall adjoining the kitchen.

We all drew near and studied the image. A smiling couple sat on a glider and a little
boy sat on the porch floor in front of them with a fishing rod held like a scepter.
The woman’s blonde hair was blowing in the breeze and the man’s arm was slung over
her shoulder, his fingertips grazing her neck.

“What a great picture,” Rachel said, moving in for a closer look.

“Your grandparents and daddy?” Barbara asked.

“No! Great-grandparents and granddaddy,” Baby said emphatically. “This is my daddy.”
She pointed at a handsome man in an Army uniform. They had the same nose.

I looked more closely at the first photo. “Oh! And it’s this house!” I swirled around,
taking in the room.

“Yep. When they were all young and pretty,” Baby said, almost wistfully.

“Oh, my…you sure do favor your great-grandmother. She was stunning.”

Baby, uncharacteristically, didn’t respond. I glanced over in time to see her blush.

“Is this your mother?” Barbara asked, picking up a fading color snapshot of a woman
holding up a glistening tarpon, the Atlantic in the background.

“That’s her. Josephine.” The timbre of her voice did not invite further exploration
of that subject, so we moved on.

“You know what?” I said, my eyes flitting from one old treasure to the next.

“What?” Rachel walked over to a built-in bookcase and studied the titles.

“This place isn’t a vacation home; it’s a home home. Big difference.” And though
the exterior might have looked similar to that of the house owned by the first Mrs.
Teddy Patterson, this was definitely not Cornelia Colleton’s stuffy sterling-lace-and-porcelain
house. A girl could get her groove on here.

“I’m glad you like it,” Baby said. “I really am.”

She was proud of this place, that was easy to see, and I began to understand why
she and Teddy had been so insistent that we come out here.

“Well, Baby, what are you waiting for? We need the grand tour,” Barbara said, and
then she downed her wine and held out her glass for more.

We wandered from room to room, throwing open cabinet and closet doors without asking.
Baby kept up a continual monologue about who had done what where, but mostly we didn’t
listen. We just oohed and ahhed and said, “Look at this!” to our hearts’ content.

The kitchen was similar to a farmhouse kitchen, complete with a pantry, a butcher’s
block, a fireplace, a breakfast nook, a supper table, and an amazing AGA range. I
admit, stone-cold envy took hold of me regarding that range, and I decided that when
I got home, Mac and I would have a discussion about a remodel.

An enclosed sunroom with a sleeping couch and game table faced north, with a beautiful
view of the dunes and beyond them, the ocean. Off the living room was a paneled library
with three oversize cushy chairs. I could imagine Teddy lolling about in there,
smoking cigars, drinking scotch, and reading his beloved historical novels.

“You haven’t seen the best yet,” Baby said, beaming, leading us upstairs, taking the
steps two at a time.

“Good grief,” Rachel grumbled, gripping the rail.

Barbara merrily shrugged her shoulders. “The privilege of youth,” she whispered.

We crowded together on the landing, breathing heavily thanks to our attempt to keep
up with Baby, and promptly fell into collective awe. “Jesus, Baby,” Rachel said,
while both Barbara and I, in unison, murmured, “Wow.”

The landing was about a ten-by-ten area—virtually its own room—and on the north side,
to the right of the stairs, loomed a picture window complete with a cushioned seat.
A person could curl up, read a book, nap, or just gaze out at the water and dream.

“You can see forever!” Barbara pressed her face against the window. “Amazing.”

“My mama told me that Granddaddy brought a rocking chair up here and that’s where
we sat for hours. Mama rocking me to sleep, telling me stories, singing me lullabies.
When Teddy and I have kids, I’m going to do that too.”

“That’s nice,” I said, and I meant it, although her words—because they unintentionally
opened up that nettle-filled crevice in my soul—made me wistful for what I didn’t
have.

“Let me show you your rooms,” Baby said, heading down the hall that led from the
landing. “We’re all staying in the ocean-side rooms,” she said breezily, “but if
any of you want to move to the bay side, just let me know.”

Tiger’s Eye had six bedrooms, three with private baths and two with fireplaces.
They all had four-poster beds and chifforobes. Chenille was everywhere.

“This is unbelievable,” Rachel said, poking her head into first one room and then
another.

“
Très magnifique
!” Barbara said, her college French slipping off her tongue.

“I thought you guys could take these three. They’re side by side. The first two
have their own baths. The last one…its bath is just across the hall. And I thought
I’d sleep in the porch room—that’s what we call it—because we made that part of the
porch a bedroom after my little brother was born. I like that it’s on the southeast
corner. I dunno why.”

“I’ve got dibs on this one!” Barbara said, walking into the first bedroom.

“Which one has the bathroom across the hall?” Rachel asked.

“Third one down. And it has a key if you want to keep everyone else out of it.”

“All right. That’s mine.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t mind walking a few feet.”

“I prefer it,” Rachel said. And that was that. There was no talking Rachel out of
something once she had made up her mind.

We spent the rest of the afternoon taking wine breaks and slowly getting our stuff
up to the house and situating our rooms, which were lovely in every way, including
their private exits onto the second-floor wraparound porch. Baby was helpful as could
be, lugging our stuff and offering advice and saying things like “Lookee there! It’s
a dolphin!” and “That sure is a handsome osprey!” and “Hmmm, looks like that ol’
coon got the turtle eggs. Blast his soul!”

Barbara was patient with Baby’s constant chatter; she was a seventh-grade teacher,
after all. But Rachel of Little Tolerance was having a tough time and would walk
several feet ahead of us as we trundled from the dock to the house with our provisions.

When we were finally done, we sat in lounge chairs on the second-floor porch, wine
in hand, enjoying the sea breeze that felt both cool and salty on our skin, and Barbara
said, “I am pooped!”

“We oughta go swimming,” Baby said, gazing out at the water, picking at a zit on her
chin.

“I’m sitting right here. I am too exhausted to move a muscle,” Rachel said, and then
she yawned as if to prove her point.

“Why don’t I fix us some sandwiches and we can eat them up here and then just fall
into bed,” I said.

“Can I help?” Baby asked, jumping up, her halter going askew so we all saw way more
of her left boob than we had a right to.

I knew she was trying to be nice, helpful even. And sharing this house with us was
wonderfully generous. But I just could not bring myself to take her up on her offer.
I suppose that by then, I’d had enough of her prattle too.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you go take a dip, these two can relax,
and I’ll fix us something to eat. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

“Great!” she said, throwing her arms around me.

Rachel mouthed the word
flake
and Barbara waved her hands in a move-her-along gesture.

Then Baby literally ran into the house, down the stairs, and onto the beach, where—to
our profound surprise and dismay—she looked first left, then right, disrobed, and
plunged buck naked into the ocean.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Rachel said. “She thinks she’s a freaking sea nymph.”

“Two weeks? Two entire weeks?” Barbara reached for the wine.

“What did you say back in Charleston, Barbara? About killing her?” Any guilt over
being mean about Baby was erased by my astonishment at her stark nakedness.

Rachel stood and rested her hands on the rail, not taking her eyes off Baby, who
was doing the backstroke, boobs up. “Well, ladies, we might not have any choice.”

I threw together a light dinner in that truly wonderful kitchen. There was something
about this place, something to do with the generational comings and goings of a happy
family, that made me feel at home. As I ran my hand along the stovetop’s shining
surface, I thought,
Maybe Mac and I should have adopted
. I imagined myself in my kitchen with a little towheaded girl, sprinkling sugar
over star-shaped cookies. I closed my eyes and pushed away the image. We both had
decided that maybe fate or God or the universe or whatever might be out there had
deemed that it should just be the two of us. And that was how it was going to be.

“Spilled milk,” I murmured. “No use fretting.”

I flung open the fridge door and began gathering what I needed. I’d made the cold
cucumber soup ahead of time, knowing that on our first night we’d be bushed. I found
my fresh dill and sweet onions—garnish for the soup—in the crisper and set them on
the counter. The bacon, lettuce, tomato, and Havarti on toast would be done in a
flash.

As I went about the business of prepping these simple ingredients, a calm quiet
took hold. Cooking always does that for me, unless the pressure is on because I am
catering an affair such as, say, a large corporate party. But here, in this good kitchen,
fixing food for my friends, I was at ease.

I reached for the knife that I would use to dice the onions.

“It’s going to be a good August gathering, Melinda,” I whispered. I peeled away an
onion’s skin.

“But we sure do miss you.”

I made Barbara go down and get Baby. Rachel and I watched from the front porch.
It appeared from the gesturing and Barbara’s stunned expression that Barbara had
to convince Baby to put her clothes back on. Barbara held open a beach towel, kept
her head turned north, and did not watch as Baby spun herself into the towel.

“It’s going to be a long two weeks,” Rachel said.

“No. We’re just going to have to ignore her when we can’t take any more.”

“Damn Teddy Patterson straight to hell.”

“Let’s eat upstairs, like I said. From there, we can throw her off the porch.”

Rachel and I ferried the soup, which I’d put in a big Blue Willow tureen, and the
sandwiches, which I’d tucked into a picnic basket I’d discovered in the pantry. As
Barbara and Baby hit the door, I called over my shoulder, “Y’all bring the wine and
napkins.”

Baby was fussing. Something about having sand up her boopie because she’d had to put
her shorts on.

I heard Barbara gently tell her, “Well go wash the poor thing out.”

“Oh my God,” I said and started laughing.

Rachel sighed and set her lips in a thin, grim line.

As I unpacked the basket, Baby wiggle-walked out onto the porch, set down a chilled
bottle of sauvignon blanc, and said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” before fleeing into her
room.

“Drama queen,” Barbara said as the screen door bounced on its hinges.

We gathered around the table we’d pulled over from the other side of the porch and
heard the shower go on.

“Scrub that thang, girlie, scrub it!” Rachel said.

“What was going on out there?” I asked Barbara.

She poured herself a glass of wine and said, “She said it’s a tradition she and
Teddy started. Their first night on the island, they always go skinny-dipping.”

“Did you tell her that Teddy isn’t here and we don’t want to see her bare bottom?”
Rachel asked, reaching for a toasted BLT and cheese.

“
La soupe est délicieuse. En vérité divine
.” Barbara smacked her lips and even though I didn’t speak French, I caught her drift.

“Thank you, Babs. And you, I must say, are looking good. You’ve lost weight since
last we saw you. And your hair is gorgeous.”

“Yeah. You look hot. What’s going on? You cheating on Hughy?”

“Far from it,” she said. “But thank you. I feel younger with that fifteen pounds gone.”

“Should we wait to eat until she’s out here?” I asked.

“Does it look like I’m waiting?” Rachel said with her mouth full.

I glanced over at Barbara, thinking she’d be laughing, but instead she looked anxious,
as if perhaps my commenting on her appearance had upset her somehow. “You OK, Babs?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” she said. “Should we talk about chore assignments now?”

“Hell no. That will wait until Miss Crabby Coochie gets out here,” Rachel said.