The Hurricane Sisters (29 page)

“God, no! You know how I feel about you! I love you, Porter!”

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

I nodded my head.

“Baby, there’s nothing to be afraid of! I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

He stepped over to me and put his arms around me and kissed me again. Then I felt him unzipping my dress. Is this how I wanted it to be? No. But I was afraid that if I didn’t let him have what he wanted I would lose him. My dress hit the floor.

“I know that,” I said, but I was very uncertain. “But I just want to wait a little . . .”

“You belong to me, Ashley, and what I say goes.”

“No! I said, no, Porter!”

I happened to glance at the clock. It was just a little after nine. He pushed me down on the bed. I didn’t even get to kick off my sandals. His mouth was on mine and no matter how much I tried to object, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

“No, Porter! Stop!”

“Shut up!”

Then it seemed that it was happening, but I didn’t feel anything. Nothing! He kept whispering my name and telling me he loved me. I didn’t even know I was crying until it was all over. I looked at my clock again. It was only ten minutes after nine. Good grief. It was the worst sexual experience of my life. Then I cried for real. Didn’t I tell him to stop? Why didn’t he stop? How was I supposed to spend the rest of my life with this passing for sex? We were completely incompatible. It wasn’t going to work, and knowing it just broke my heart into a million pieces. Plus, I hadn’t wanted to do it and he knew it.

“Oh, great,” he said. “I guess it’s time for me to leave.”

“I wasn’t ready,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I just wanted to wait, Porter.”

“Well, it’s a little late to clarify your position, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“And I wasn’t enough for you, was I?”

“Oh, no, Porter . . . it’s just that . . . I don’t know. I don’t.”

But he
knew
and he was so angry with me that he was almost hyperventilating. He practically jumped into his pants and he threw his shirt on without even buttoning it. He stepped into his loafers and then he slapped one hand across my face. Then he was gone. Just like that. He was gone.

Mary Beth got home sometime after two in the morning and I was on the portico, sobbing my eyes out. I’d left the door open so she’d know where to find me.

“What the hell happened?” she said. “Are you all right?”

“No! Oh, Mary Beth. It’s over!”

“You and Porter?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, God, he
hates
me now! We . . . you know . . .”

“Had sex?”

“Yes. And it was
terrible
!”

“The sex or that you did it in the first place?”

“Both! Oh, God! I could just die!”

“Stop! Listen to me, Ash. Are you telling me he forced you to have sex with him?”

“Yes. I mean, he knew I didn’t want to do it and then he just sort of did it to me anyway.”

“Ashley? That’s called rape. Call it
date rape
if you want to soften up the term but it’s still rape. Did you object?”

“Of course I did, but it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t care.”

“The bastard! Let’s go to the emergency room. Come on. Let’s get your purse.”

“No! Mary Beth, listen to me. I’m
not
going to be the one to ruin his career. I’m not! I’m just saying that we were so incompatible and that’s what breaks my heart. It was impossible.”

“Oh, Ash.” Mary Beth came and sat next to me on the glider. She threw her arm around my shoulder and gave me a good squeeze. “There’s nothing worse than lousy sex. I’m sorry. Was it really that hopeless?”

“I’m pretty sure. Oh, hell. Yes. It was that hopeless. Less than ten minutes of sheer nothingness. When he realized I wasn’t thrilled, he slapped me and then he stomped out. I’ve been crying ever since.”

“What? He hit you?”

“Yes.”

“That shit. Don’t cry, Ashley. He isn’t worth it.”

“He said terrible things to me.”

“He’ll calm down. He’ll call and say he’s sorry. He will.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mary Beth. I’m just so sad because I thought we were so good together. I was going to be his Jackie O.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you a secret?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the secret.”

“Okay. You know Samir and his five-hundred-dollars thing?”

“Sort of.” Was she going to confess at last?

“Well, he can only get it up if he tells himself he’s with a prostitute.”

“And so he pays you to have sex with him?”

“Yeah, the same five hundred dollars every single time. He gives it to me, I take it back to him, he gives to me again, I take it back again . . . I mean, men and their you know whats are a very complicated business. At least we don’t have to worry about
that
!”

I actually laughed! One, I was seriously relieved to know my best friend wasn’t a total whore and, two, her story was as bad as mine!

“So your momma really did send you that watch?”

“Yes. She bought it on the Internet. Why, what did you think?”

“I thought I was going crazy! Oh, my God,” I said. “Men!”

“Men is right.”

CHAPTER 18

Liz—Another Chance

It was early in the morning, and the weather was overcast and humid. I was making pancakes. He was sleeping in the guest room. Clayton, I mean. I called him after Charleston Flowers delivered last evening. The parade of people bringing in flowers was a little bit insane. Every surface in the living room, dining room, kitchen, my bedroom, the guest room, the kids’ old rooms—everything was covered in vases of heart-stopping gorgeous flowers. It was as though someone terribly important had dropped dead and my house was a funeral parlor or as though
someone
was drowning in regret. I’m going with regret, although I almost dropped dead myself when I saw all the flowers. Like the women I championed, flowers had something hardscrabble in them, rugged enough to climb through tons of stone and earth to emerge as a beautiful thing. Beautiful, but fragile still. I decided that I would take most of them to the safe house and share them with all the women and children. But for that lovely moment I was going to enjoy them and photograph them so I would remember that this was the greatest gesture of apology that ever came from Clayton.

So I called him last night after the flowers arrived and he begged me to let him come home. What was I going to say?
No?
I couldn’t do that. Maisie was right. He deserved at least a conversation, a chance to explain himself. I’d done a lot of thinking since New York. A lot. The truth was that Clayton was as vulnerable to temptation as the next man except that he got caught. And now he was desperately sorry. I believed him. And, as much as I hated to admit it, the extraordinary abundance of blooms softened my heart.

When Clayton arrived at around eight, I asked him if he was hungry. I opened the front door for him but I averted my eyes from his. I just couldn’t look in his eyes because I knew I’d burst into tears. He followed me to the kitchen, and I was trying to act as though everything was calm because I really didn’t want to fight. What was the point of a screaming match? And to be honest, I was more sad than angry and that was what I wanted him to know.

Anyway, I had made some pasta from what I had in the house and what I didn’t eat was still in a pot on the stove. It would taste even better tomorrow.

So I said, “You hungry?”

He said, “No.”

This surprised me because I couldn’t recall him ever turning down food of almost any sort and certainly not pasta. And maybe, just maybe, he could see the irony in expecting me to serve him a meal juxtaposed by the fact that it was unacceptable for him to just help himself. I took this as evidence that he was deeply and genuinely upset.

“Someone send flowers?” he asked.

I had to smile then because we were truly surrounded by a virtual botanical garden bonanza.

“Yes. Someone sent flowers.”

He smiled and picked up a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen and considered it. To my surprise he put it back and said, “Let’s talk first and then maybe we can share a bottle later?”

“We’ll see,” I said. “That depends.”

“I know. Do you want to sit in the kitchen? Or the living room or where?”

“The kitchen is fine,” I said.

After all, the kitchen was where most of our family’s drama had always played itself out. And the important conversations, whether they were about science projects, math problems, college applications, hurt feelings, or family illnesses, all happened in the kitchen. Usually you’d find us around the ancient walnut trestle table I bought out in Summerville from an antique dealer right after we moved into this house. I wished then that I had a dollar for every meal I had cooked and served on this table. Or for every problem solved, hand held, and heart mended.

“Okay,” he said and took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, moved several arrangements to the floor, and sat down. Apparently, taking water was not overstepping whatever boundaries he had imposed on himself. It was interesting that instead of sitting at the head of the table where he’d sat since the children were little, he took a chair on the far side. Maybe that was some unconscious signal that he was uncertain about his position in the family. I sat opposite him where I always sat. And waited. He just stared at me through masses of pink roses and Stargazer lilies.

Finally, he took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair, and spoke.

“I made a terrible, terrible mistake, Liz.”

“I’d say so,” I said.

“You couldn’t know how profoundly sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you or anyone.”

“Do you want to tell me why this happened? I didn’t know you were so unhappy with our marriage. I really didn’t. I mean, I know it’s not fabulously exciting every day of the week, but it’s dependable and solid. And we’ve had lots of wonderful things happen to us, haven’t we? Happy years?”

“I wasn’t unhappy with our marriage. I really wasn’t. I guess the only explanation is that I was weak. And I don’t know why I was so weak with Sophia . . .”

“
Wait!
Stop!
Stop right there. I never want to hear that nasty filthy name in my house again. Ever.”

“Okay. I’ll never say it again, but my point was that I don’t know what made me so weak because I’ve said no thanks to lots of women over the years.”

“You have?” What kind of a thing was that to say? “Where are we headed here, Clayton?”

“Oh, come on. Like you haven’t said no to other men?”

“Actually, only once.” Okay, maybe there was one other guy but that was so long ago.

“Who was it?”

“You don’t know him,” I said.

“Okay,” he said and looked at me as if the guy’s name would appear across my forehead as though it was hidden under my makeup. “Okay. But remember the rush of excitement you felt when he first came on to you and you realized he
wanted
you? That he was practically possessed with you?”

“Yes,” I said, remembering how I blushed then and how exciting it was that someone else found me attractive and even desirable enough to suggest something so dangerous and illicit. It had been almost staggering to consider but in the end nothing happened. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with him. And it wasn’t because I stood on some high moral ground. Nothing happened simply because I was a coward. But that decision had almost nothing to do with Clayton. In fact, for the duration of the flirtation, Clayton rarely came to mind. What Clayton was trying to tell me was that his affair with her, the Wanton Whore of the Upper East Side, had nothing to do with me or our marriage. I understood that this was possibly true.

“I was seduced,” he said. “Like Adam and Eve and I took the apple.”

“I’m sure she seduced the hell out of you,” I said. “She has a long history of leading men down the path to her well-worn mattress. She’s horrible. She’s a man-eater.”

“Yes, she is. I’m so sorry, Liz. I don’t know what in the hell I was thinking.”

“I’m so disappointed, Clayton.”

“I am too. I’ve never been the kind of man who did those things and I don’t want to be that kind of man now. It’s despicable and tawdry behavior. I’m just so glad it’s over.”

“You cried, Clayton. You cried to me. You cried like a
baby
and told me that
you loved her
.”

“There was a moment that I thought I did love her. Then I came to my senses. And I have the deepest shame and the most horrible regret that I said those things to you. I must’ve been out of my mind.”

“It’s possible. You wouldn’t be the first man who ever took a leave from his senses over a pair of outrageous implants. But that’s not the problem.
Do
you love her?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you really and truly certain of that?”

“Yes. Listen, Liz. I’ve done more soul-searching in the last two days than I think I’ve ever done in my entire life and I’ve made some important decisions.”

“I’m listening . . .”

“First of all and most important, I realized how much I really do love you. You’ve been a wonderful wife and mother all these years. You deserve better than what I’ve given you up until now and I am determined to make this up to you.”

“We’ll see.”

“And I’m retiring. I don’t really need to work anymore. We have plenty of money. I’m putting the co-op on the market and selling it. I want to be here all the time.”

“To do what?”

“Well, a friend of mine who has been married for a long time told me the secret to a happy marriage is to operate like a team. I’ve been flying solo for too long. So I want us to take up golf.”

“
Golf
?
Golf
? Are you
serious
?” I burst out laughing. He didn’t even crack a smile. “Holy mother! You
are
serious! Clayton? You think a sport like golf can repair a broken marriage? That is the most ludicrous thing you have
ever
said for as long as I have known you!
Golf
?”