Lowcountry Summer
DOROTHEA
BENTON
FRANK
Lowcountry
Summer
In loving memory of
my sweet brother, Billy
Contents
1 - Welcome Back to Tall Pines
2 - Excess
3 - About Amelia
4 - Spring Forward
5 - Graffiti
6 - Miss Sweetie
7 - Chaos
8 - The Girls
9 - Weekend Warriors
10 - Etiquette Unchained
11 - More Dirty Laundry
12 - Settling Down
13 - Miss Lavinia in the Garden
14 - The Deep End
15 - The Unforeseen
16 - Rusty
17 - Spirits Fly
18 - Carry Me Home
19 - Glory Rising
20 - Reckoning Days
21 - Make War Not Love
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Map
Also by Dorothea Benton Frank
Copyright
About the Publisher
I
T IS A GENERALLY ACCEPTED
fact that at some point during your birthday, you will reassess your life. When you are young, and by “young” I mean the sum of your years is under twenty, your whole life is still in front of you. Your un-jaundiced eyes are sunlit and wide. Your lungs rise and fall with breathless optimism. Whom will you marry? Who will you become? Will you be blessed with good children? Live in China? Climb Everest? Visit the Casbah? Sail the Amazon? Will the riches of the world find their way to your door? The details of your future life are still shrouded in the opaque mists of time’s crystal ball and you, the anxious and impetuous young you, hopping from one foot to the other, cannot wait to get there.
But, darlin’, when your years creep north of thirty, your assessing eye blinks, drifts to the past to scan your scorecard because your future is pretty much a foregone conclusion. Or is it? Surely by forty, you
should
know who you are and how well you are doing with your life. At least you hope you’ll have life under control by then.
At least that’s what I was thinking about on that Sunday afternoon, the fifteenth of April, 2007, when most of my family gathered at Tall Pines. They were there to toast the culmination of my forty-six years and wish me well as I embarked on my forty-seventh. None of us knew about the disasters to come that would change me and everyone around me forever.
Had I not learned a thing? Apparently not. It was God’s grace that my mother, Miss Lavinia, was gone to glory or she would have slapped me silly while whispering in an even jasmine tone her deepest disappointment in my judgment. Mother had taught me better. She stopped any nonsense before it could gain steam. But where was she when I needed her? Gone. Yes, I still suffered over my mother’s death for many reasons, not the least of which was that as soon as we were reunited in life, she slipped through my fingers and died. It was completely devastating and very, very unfair. And, how would you like to have the job of filling Lavinia Boswell Wimbley’s shoes? You would not. Never mind she literally had hundreds of pairs, one size smaller than my foot.
I looked around. Rusty and my brother, Trip, still together after all these years despite all the interference, were in the living room and as always the heat between them was excruciating. I often wondered if what mischief they had with each other between the sheets was as provocative as their behavior in the company of others. As he handed her a plate of food, any fool could see his other hand traveling to her lap for a tickle. So silly.
I wondered what my mother’s friends Miss Sweetie and Miss Nancy thought about them, not that Rusty or Trip would have been even slightly wounded for one second to learn that they had embarrassed their elders. They were oblivious. The old crows, knowing them, probably found the lovebirds’ croon to be titillating. Why, they still fooled around in chat rooms for singles, pretending to be college coeds! They thought it was hilarious! I guess it’s fair to say that out here in plantation country, your social life was really truly only ever going to be what you made of it. And available men of their age were almost all gone, meaning deceased. Any old coots who were still on the prowl wanted young girls, younger than me, something that made me feel uncomfortable.
And you might know, Trip was still campaigning for Frances Mae to sign new separation papers that she had no intention of signing. Perhaps it was the fact that Rusty and Trip could not marry that kept their fires burning. We always crave what we cannot possess, do we not?
And Millie and Mr. Jenkins? They had enough going on between them to produce smoldering embers in every fireplace at Tall Pines Plantation, but they would never admit it and we rarely caught a glimpse of it. They were old-school, discreet and modest. Ah, discretion! I admired them for those qualities, although discretion seemed to be difficult for me to embrace. Let’s be honest. When a suitable man came into my life, Miss Lavinia’s blood coursed through my veins like the fast train from Dijon to Saint-Tropez.
Speaking of “all aboard the TGV”? My current beau was a wonderful guy named Bobby Mack. Bobby was a little bit shorter than I am and sort of stocky. But he was a willing fellow who was passionate about everything, including me. There were many reasons why we were not likely to marry, but the main one was that he was an unreliable companion. Every weekend and holiday and even today was spent working. Bobby raised pastured Heirloom pork to the music of Chopin, but every time I turned around, he was throwing a pig pull for a hundred people or climbing on a truck to personally deliver a carcass to Daniel Boulud in New York. It was annoying. And the other reason was that he always smelled like traces of the literal pits—deeply smoky and a little greasy—an occupational hazard which could not be washed away by any soap yet produced on earth. But when we’d argue and I would decide it was time to say good-bye forever, he would show up at my door with five pounds of bacon. That was about all it took to sustain us for another month or so. I’m a fool for pork. And to be honest, I liked the way he smelled, but when we were around other people, I would see them sniffing.
My handsome son, Eric, now a freshman at the University of South Carolina, was there also. He had come home for the day with Trip and Frances Mae’s oldest daughter, Amelia, who was a junior at the university, majoring in American history. Yes, it was true. Amelia, who had sprung from the fiery womb of Satan’s favorite hellcat, had become lovelier to behold with each passing year. Except for her unfortunate hair, poor thing—that endless tangle of black strings was all twisted up on her head and held with combs and rubber bands. But her eyes were nice, bright blue like Trip’s, with thick lashes. Millie and I often wondered why Amelia chose to major in American history. Maybe the poor dear thought that if she scoured our country’s past with enough diligence, she could find a reasonable explanation for the piss-poor protoplasm of her mother’s genetic code. Who’s knows? Thank God Amelia was more like Trip.
But my Eric? It’s incredible to say this but all of his learning-style differences seemed to have practically disappeared or else he had developed such strong study skills and compensating skills from years of Rusty’s tutelage that it seemed that way. In any case, he had blossomed under Trip’s attention and my flawless mothering. Do I hear a groan from the peanut gallery? Okay, here’s the truth. Between Millie, Rusty and me, Trip and Mr. Jenkins, Eric had enough parents for ten boys. And of course, when Miss Lavinia was alive she doted on her only grandson.
And Richard, my ex? Eric’s father? That British slime of the earth with his postured accent? The not-such-a-genius psychotherapist/psychiatrist? His contact with all of us had dwindled to a bare minimum and that suited us just fine. Eric was already in college, practically grown, and the last decade of his life had played out with only Richard’s slightest presence or interest. Richard’s loss, not ours.
The university was under an hour’s drive from Tall Pines, but to Amelia and Eric, it was light-years away. Freeing Amelia of her chaotic life in Walterboro and moving Eric away from the plantation had brought about all the changes in them you would expect as children finally come of age. Independence! They were learning how to inhabit the adult world and to draw their own conclusions about worldly matters. They stood taller, and without prompting, even self-corrected their student slouch from time to time. They were less rowdy and more considerate of others. I looked around to see my Eric leaning forward, listening in earnest to Miss Sweetie as she piffled on and on about my recent purchase of a portion of her strawberry business.
I think Miss Sweetie was happy about it. She had no children to inherit and she had always been like an aunt to me. We finally agreed after a lot of discussion that she should remain on as the spokesperson for the company, the president emeritus, traveling to state fairs and appearing on the Food Network as our ambassador, judging cakes, pies, tarts, and breads made with our jams, and salads made with our pickles, and giving small scholarships to worthy students. My job was to oversee the management of the business, which required very little time as it wasn’t overly complicated and she already had great managers in place. We changed the name of the business to Sweetie’s, much simpler all around than the confection formerly known as TBDJOTP, The Best Damn Jelly On The Planet. She had wanted to retire, but I assured her that if she did, she would be as dead as Kelsey’s cow in six months, whoever Kelsey was. Even Millie got in on the conversation that took place on the veranda last fall.
“What you gone do with yourself if you retire, Miss Sweetie? You gone dry-rot! That’s what! Retire? That’s some fool, ’eah?”
We giggled and it came to me that Miss Sweetie just wanted to be assured that she wouldn’t be in the way and that her expertise was truly wanted and valued. Tears came to my eyes thinking of my mother then. Older people are terrified of outliving their usefulness and I would never let Miss Sweetie feel that way. Miss Sweetie was loving her new role and I was staying busy when I wanted to be.
My old career was packed up in boxes. After all, the Lowcountry didn’t need another interior decorator, especially when the nearby population who actually
used
a decorator only did so every hundred years or so. We loved our threadbare Aubussons and Niens and petit point curtains about which we could brag Sherman had overlooked in his infamous march, attempting to burn the Carolinas all the way to hell. We cherished every nick and dent in our great-grandmother’s four-poster bed and every hidden compartment in our great-grandfather’s secretary. Ancient coin silver candelabras were irreplaceable; mint-julep cups were closely guarded. Napkin rings were still in use, even for kitchen meals. Okay, maybe not for kitchen meals, but you know what I mean when I say that we were trying to sustain a certain way of life. Besides all that, Eric was gone off to find his future and what was I supposed to do with myself? So it was me, strawberries, and the pig farmer. Until my birthday of that year.
We were enjoying each other’s company and sharing a late afternoon buffet lunch. Millie had prepared chicken Pirlau, a salad of asparagus and orange wedges with avocado in a citrus vinaigrette, and, of course, steaming-hot biscuits so light they literally collapsed and melted in our mouths like a soufflé. Miss Nancy brought the dessert fresh from her oven. It was a hummingbird cake. The smells of sugar and spice taunted us like a whispering siren from its spot on the buffet. And Miss Sweetie made a strawberry trifle with whipped cream, my ultimate favorite.